


Tales from Derry: The Unlucky

by ChibiPanda



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Death, Grotesque Imagery, Language, Monsters, Murder, NaNoWriMo, Semi Consensual Sex, Sex, Violence, it's complicated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-01 01:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12694635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiPanda/pseuds/ChibiPanda
Summary: In the summer of 1958, death crept out from beneath a small town-spread across Derry Maine. Leaving broken families and bloodied children in its wake.The lucky seven may have faced the darkness, crawled into the black, and emerged strong and standing. Yet not everyone was so fortunate.For the evil that dwells in a child’s mind lives in Derry; is Derry. IT’s life, inevitably, meant the end of theirs.'For the few children that were lucky, the terror would close; end with silver and glass. The others, however, would be left blind and shivering in the desolate dark. Left orphaned with the knowledge that what you think is watching you, stalking you, is real and nothing can be done to stop it.'NOTE: I have not forgotten! I am slowly trying to finish up the last couple chapters I promise!!!!!!! (May 11th)





	1. It Has Begun

**Author's Note:**

> Consider the following; this is my NaNo 2017 project. I will upload chapters (chronologically) as they are completed. The will be slightly edited and not uploaded super consistently.  
> *This is inspired by Stephen King's It - all warnings that apply to King's work will apply to this. This includes the potential for non-consensual sex, violence against children, language, etc.* 
> 
> Hopefully someone enjoys it <3

1

            October in Derry Maine was always bitter and wet, the perfect embodiment of summer’s death. The October that fell during the year 1957 was far wetter than the average. It was filled with more decay and rot than the average, as the leaves turned quicker and fell faster; as though foreshadowing the terror which would befall the town.

After the particularly nasty storm that swept through – the storm that would seemingly give way to the events of 1958 – leaving parts of Jackson and Witcham Street still closed, most children were locked up inside. Caged in the houses that protected them from the waning tendrils of the passing storm; protecting them from other things as well. The nightmare would begin, the same way most bad dreams often did, with unassuming decisions and seemingly inconsequential actions. It would start with the flood and a boat. The nightmare would last, unchecked, then balanced, and quiet.  

            For the few children that were lucky, the terror would close; end with silver and glass. The others, however, would be left blind and shivering in the desolate dark. Left orphaned with the knowledge that what you think is watching you, stalking you, is real and nothing can be done to stop it.

 

 

2

            Despite the gloomy weather, a tall gangly twelve-year-old boy had escaped the clutches of his parents and was now walking his large rumbustious dog – likely a cross between a Golden Retriever and a Rottweiler – down Witcham Street towards West Broadway. His grey rain slicker, reaching well below his knees, didn’t fully cover his face. Leaving his thick black rectangular-framed glasses, which bordered his rich mahogany brown eyes, unshielded. Water clung to the thick lenses, running off only as the drips became too fat to maintain their hold. He looked comically thin, silhouetted up against the siding of the various houses he passed. The black fringe that was plastered to his forehead, contrasted with his pale skin. He reached up rubbing specks of water off his freckled cheeks.

            The dog barked suddenly, pulling hard at the leash, and causing the boy to stagger onto the Denbrough property. He fell down on one knee after losing his balance. Over the sound of the residual rain, he could hear the melodious hum of a piano playing from within the house. He listened for a second, unable to place the song, before standing again. He then pulled lightly on the leash, “Come on Neville, time to go home.” His voice was deep for his age, though it still held traces of puberty.

            Hopping off the curb, the boy tugged again on the leash and the dog followed; bounding happily. Careful to avoid any deep standing water, they crossed Witcham Street and started down West Broadway. The dog then pulled towards the house on the corner, but the boy was prepared this time; correcting him slightly. “Not today boy.” And the two continued on. Eventually, turning into an open garage few houses farther down.

            The dog wandered on, after the boy had released the lease, and sat obediently by the door. Reaching up, the scrawny kid pulled the hood off of his head creating a puddle underneath him as the water ran down his back. He then grabbed the dark blue towel that had been hanging next to the door. “Good boy,” he smiled as he began to dry off the wet dog. Carefully rubbing the towel across the dog’s back, then proceeding to dry each paw. The dog simply sat, occasionally licking the kid’s neck, which received a loving scoff in response.

            Once the dog was mostly dry, he got a kiss planted firmly on the head. “Come on Neville, let’s get inside. You can’t get on the furniture though, got it.” The bespectacled boy added the last part as though he had been speaking to a young child rather than a two-year-old dog. He shook his head, and the dog followed suit, together they splashed water on the dry ground. Then the boy walked forward and opened the door allowing his dog to enter the house before him.

 

 

3

            The house on the corner of Witcham and West Broadway was without power, as was the majority of this part of town since the storm. Sandbags protected the front steps form the now receding water, hastily packed in place in the early hours of the previous morning. The worn paint on the door offered a soft kind undertone; welcoming. On the second floor, a soft light flickered with the draft.

            Towards the back of the house, two doors stood open. The left dark, except for the fading light that flooded in through the window illuminating an unmade bed and a discarded backpack. The right, shown the flickering of candles. Two figures laughing and speaking to one another.

            A girl and a boy, similar in appearance and clearly related. The singular picture frame located next to the small candles that burned near the window showed two infants, both dressed in matching onesies and knit hats. The frame which held the picture was dated and marked in deep red letters, _October 29 th, 1946 – Twins are twice as Nice_.

            Unlike the other room, this one was neat and clear of clutter – baring the two children – and painted a faded green. A backpack leaning against the wall nearest the door and a blue knit cap, not unlike the one wore in the picture, sat on top.

            Atop the bed, a young girl stretched out over the teal-grey blankets laying on her stomach and rested her elbows on a purple pillow. Her black hair fanned out across her back. The loose curls brushing against her slight olive skin. With a laugh, she gently tosses her head back and her bright green oval eyes glittered. She sat up and reached for her other pillow, once in her tight grasp she brought it down hard on her brother’s head. Then, promptly burst into another set of giggles which produced small drops from each eye.

            The boy below her recoiled from her attack. His back, broad and strong for his age, rested against the bed once again after recovering. His skin matched hers, if not more deep and rich in color. He leaned his head back, the chocolate brown fluff fell as he did revealing the tight curls it held. He joined her in laughing, his hazel eyes meeting her green.

            A clock chimed from somewhere in the house, and with it, the laughter tapered off. The girl, elegantly, climbed off of the bed and pulled the slightly shorter boy onto his feet. “Time to start dinner.” She stated and turned to head downstairs.

            “The power is still off. Hey, at least blow out the candles.” The boy called after her, blew out the candles, and then followed.

 

 

4

            Across town, just off of Costello Avenue, power flickered trying to turn back on. Angry voices broke through the windows and crashed into the street. When the wind died down, they could even be heard by the Gardener’s whose backyards stood adjacent to the well maintained two story home from where the yelling was coming.

            A door slammed shut and a rosy blonde girl struggled to pull a sweater over her head as she walked to the back porch. The sweater was tight on her swell of skin, suctioned to her body once she finally managed to put in on. Its tightness revealed developing breasts now pointed and sharp due to the cold, taught under the fabric like two ripe oranges nearly splitting from their peals.

            She sat on the patio chair, the cushion of her thighs spreading as she leaned over curving her back. Grey-black eyes glared at the memory of whatever argument had driven her outside and her full lips pouted in a downward snarl, “fuck her.” Voice lost in the wind and rain. It was clearly early afternoon, though the sun was well covered by the dark clouds.

            She looked over to the side, as though checking to see if someone had followed her out, then shifted to reach behind the chair on which she sat. Seconds later, she pulled out a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a full pack of matches. With tactically precision, she lit one and placed it to her lips. She held it there, carefully between her front teeth and soft lips, as she replaced her stash in the hidden spot. Crossing her legs, she took a long slow drag of the cigarette. As she blew out the smoke the young teenage girl repeated, “Fuck her,” and ran her free hand through her shoulder-length hair.

            Suddenly a scream pierced the night, and the young teenage girl nearly burned herself. The scream was pained and scared; that of a young child. It ended within a few seconds. Less than a minute later the scream was replaced with an older voice, Mr. Gardener’s voice, yelling desperately for help. The screams and yells continued until the girl saw two police cars round the corner, and an ambulance turn down Witcham Street. Another new, frantic scream overtook whatever sounds had continued from moments before; fraught and sorrowful. The sound of a woman crying in terrified disbelief.   

 

 

5

The sky blue 1946 Chevrolet Coupe was driving carefully in the rain. The driver, an older woman probably in her late 70s, was barely able to see over the steering wheel. Her red-rimmed glasses constantly slid forward needing readjustment. Every time she’d reach up to do so, thereby removing a hand from the wheel, the car would veer ever so slightly into oncoming traffic. The pattern created a kind of rhythm.

In the back seat, a boy with thick messy blonde hair sat staring excitedly out the right-hand window. His fascination manifesting physically, as he pressed close to the glass. At times causing his nose to be pushed up resembling a pig. His blue eyes sparkled at each sandbag and orange sawhorse as though he hadn’t seen them prior. The freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose, occasionally forced into unnatural constellations when pressed into the glass.

On his left, a large black instrument case tilted with the motion of the car. Falling forward into the driver’s seat back, then softly slamming into the back seat again. Its wide heavy body barely shifting left or right.

The car continued down Route 2, returning from an ill-timed church recital at which the boy played. Despite probable road closures and some streets torn apart from the storm days before, the coupe started off through town to reach its destination. Turning down Witcham Street and partially avoiding large weathered potholes. The car went on, passing black houses and fallen branches.

Red and blue flashing lights ahead, caused an enthusiastic squeal from the boy, “Nan! It’s the police!”

The old woman gave an uninterested hum, clearly accustomed to the outbursts. 

Slowing to a stop, the grey hair grandmother rolled down her window as an officer dressed in rain gear approached, “Good evening Mrs. Etchells.” He began. He smiled, but even to the boy it seemed forced, “I’m afraid you can’t pass through Witcham.”

Mrs. Etchells gave an agitated, yet intrigued huff. “Why not? The road can’t be so bad.” Her question was clearly out of interest and lacked even the basic concern for what may have occurred to bring first responders out.

The officer sighed, “I’m afraid there’s been murder, ma’am.” He paused again glancing towards the Ambulance and the small gathering of people. “The Denbrough boy has been killed.”

“Not the little one?!” 

Through a pained smile, the man nodded. “Like I said Mrs. Etchells, Witcham is closed. You’ll have to go the long way.” Leaving no time for further questions the man clapped a hand on the door, splashing bits of water, and walked back to the other on-duty officers. One of which, moving one of the orange sawhorses to block traffic, lost his hat as a blast of wind rushed across the street.

Once again pressed up against the glass, the eleven-year-old saw the crowd of people standing just beyond the newly placed sawhorse. A few had rain jackets on, seemingly prepared, while others stood unprotected from the rain. Another boy, one that the blue-eyed blonde knew as stuttering Bill, was standing unseeingly on the steps of the house just after the blockade dressed in pajamas.

            The blonde pulled away from the window and turned partially toward the driver, “Nan? ‘The Denbrough boy?’ Was that police officer talking about stut…” The kid stopped just short of using ‘stuttering’ to describe Bill, a thing he had done in the past and something his Nan always scolded him about – despite her use of colorful nicknames for a number of individuals. “Bill’s kid brother?” The excitement still lingered but was slowly being replaced with an odd sense of stillness. The blonde knew Bill, at least as well as any classmate might. He hadn’t seen him on this particular day, but he did see him often enough.

            Her eyes moved to the rear-mirror momentarily then back to the road, “That’s what it sounds like.”

            “Oh…”   

 

 

6

            A few days later, while Derry was still being berated with rain, people gathered at the local cemetery. Most of those attending were silent and somber. Kids were scattered among the adults muttering to one another in hushed voices. The redheaded Richie Tozier flashed rather concerned glances at the eldest – only – Denbrough boy. Besides the small voices and slight drawl of the rain, the sound of an asthma inhaler was heard with general frequency.

            Near the front, stood a family that in many ways resembled the now broken Denbrough family. The father, dressed in his finest suit, and the mother, whose dress was covered by a well-fitted rain jacket, were both wearing black. Just in front of them, their daughter stood, a classmate of Bill’s, dressed in her Sunday best and shielded from the drizzle by her father’s open umbrella. Next to her stood the youngest, a six-year-old boy.

            His build was similar to the late George Denbrough’s, average in weight and slightly taller than his classmates. His hair, forced down by the rain, was a rich auburn. Restlessly he kicked at the ground and rocked back on his heals every few seconds. His deep brown eyes moved and shifted with the rest of his body, unable to contain his agitation even there. On the upper left side of his face, starting at the edge of the upper part of his ear and reaching all the way to his eyebrow, was a mark shaped vaguely like Tennessee. It was the color of cream filled coffee which seemed even darker against his pale skin.

            He kicked his feet again and splash mud unthinkingly around, this time some staining his sister’s tights.

            “Charles! You pest!” The eleven-year-old hissed angrily.

            Without a word, their father placed a rough hand on each of their shoulders silencing them. The boy looked up towards him, but their father didn’t shift his gaze from the small casket a dozen feet away. Charles’ eyes then flashed towards his mother, who was also impassively staring at the grieving family, and she remained motionless.

            The young boy then looked back towards the box that was being lowered into the ground. His mother had told him that his classmate, Georgie, had died. Although, that really didn’t answer his questions.

            He shifted again, trying to kick at the mud once more, only to be stopped by his father with more force this time. With a sigh, he tried to escape from his father’s grasp only to be grabbed by the other hand as well – after the older man carefully passed the umbrella into his wife’s waiting palm. Now forced to look back at the hole in the ground, he leaned back; defeated.           

 

 

7

            With George Denbrough now below the ground, the darkness that lives in Derry has once again shown its face. Awakening once more to fill itself with the terror and pain of the children unfortunate enough to live within the hunting ground. Derry was now a feasting place for a monster.


	2. Lawrence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An odd shape caught his eye and Lawrence’s deep hazel gaze shifted. It was a balloon, a red balloon, floating up from the overpass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to try and post Sundays until it is finished. Remember this is set in King's world, so all his warnings apply. Hope you enjoy <3

1

            It was a crisp day in Derry. A layer of new snow had covered the ground some time over the night, and the sky continued to threaten to unleash another few inches on top of the foot already in place. Despite the chill, Derry Elementary was alight with fervent activity. Today was December 19th, the last day before Winter break began. It had been pushed up half a week due to the sudden weather. Not that anyone was complaining.

            Lawrence Fabayn was seated in the middle row of one of the fifth-grade classes. He was lucky, sitting near the largest window on the left-hand side of the room, and –thankfully – farthest from Henry Bowers. Though, admittedly Lawrence’s fear of Henry Bowers had dwindled over the last year or so. He easily stayed under the idiot’s radar. Plus, that fat kid, _Ben maybe_ , had been taking up most of Bowers’ attention as of late.

            Mrs. Douglas was drowning on about something, their upcoming homework or whatever project she had planned for them to do over break most likely Lawrence supposed. No one was listening. The average fifth grader had an attention span of a two-year-old dog, and that attention span disappeared the instant snow hit the ground; being replaced with winter plans and snowball fights.

            Lawrence glanced outside, gazing at the snow covered playground with a mindless glaze. His eyes wandered to the base of the slide, covered with white and brown where snow had mixed with mud. He wondered momentarily how the mud had managed to get into the slide in the first place.

            An odd shape caught his eye and Lawrence’s deep hazel gaze shifted. It was a balloon, a red balloon, floating up from the overpass.

            “Mr. Fabayn. Are you already finished with this homework assignment?”

            The shrill voice of Mrs. Douglas startled Lawrence enough to cause him to jump and spin around. His normally unkempt dark brown hair lay flat after wearing his winter hat all morning, the once bouncy curls lifeless and unmoving. His shoulders involuntarily slouched, making his rather muscular frame appear small, eyes lidded and glaring as a faint blush dusted his olive cheeks in an unflattering patchwork pattern. He resisted allowing his body to grumble aloud at the woman.

            Through the stir of giggles which spread across the classroom, Lawrence mumbled some sort of response. Whatever he had said, it must have been enough for Mrs. Douglas because she didn’t speak to him again – though her glance seemed somewhat annoyed. He would call that a victory.

            Once her attention was again focused on the students who were falling asleep and scolding Henry for attempting to flip up a girl’s skirt with a ruler, Lawrence looked back out the large window and into the white haze. The balloon was long gone. Which was expected given the weather. Briefly, Lawrence imagined who had lost the balloon; a girl, probably. She’d have to have been too young for school and outside, playing with her mother. No, they had been shopping, getting ingredients for the stew that her mother was planning to make to feed the family while it snowed outside; the kind that sits on the stove from sun-up until dinner, making the house smell rich with delicious aromas. While walking through the aisles, holding her mother’s hand, the little girl noticed the balloon – red, her favorite color – she begged and begged until her mother would reluctantly agree and buy the glossy piece of rubber for her daughter. And then, as with any child and any balloon, it would escape; slipping out from her tiny thin fingers, floating off to its inevitable demise. Dancing on the wind and eventually getting pieced by a bird or caught in a tree. The girl would cry and the woman would…

            Then the bell rang and Lawrence’s story died with the sound, vanished as his attention was once again redirected. The classroom was an explosion of activity as students rushed to collect their things and run out the door. Lawrence did not rush. There was no need. The other fifth-grade class, where his twin sister Minnie was, always let out late. It never matters when the bell rang or if the weather was bad; they were let out five minutes late at least. So, with no great speed, he gathered his things and stood up.

            “Have a Merry Christmas Mrs. Douglas. I am sorry about earlier,” Lawrence muttered as he passed her desk.

            “You too, Lawrence. Stay safe out there.” She said with a warm, yet slightly pained smile.

            The hallway had nearly emptied by the time He entered it, despite the relatively short time since the school bell rang. Just as he had expected, Minnie’s class was just exiting the room as he approached it. Lawrence watched, his eyes following the Denbrough kid for a moment longer than the others.

            _This will be the first Christmas since his kid brother died…_ Lawrence could feel himself grimace in empathy. If something happened to Minnie, he was not sure how he would continue going to school, let alone celebrating a holiday so focused on children and joy.

Lawrence admired Bill Denbrough, the kid may have stuttered but he wasn’t dumb and clearly knew more about the world around him than the average fifth grader. Plus, he was one hell of a storyteller. Minnie and he had class off and on with Bill since they started school, and every time Bill spoke the determination he brought was admirable. If Lawrence had been older, he might even say his admiration went deeper morphing into some kind of affection. Yet, Lawrence was not fifteen; he was eleven.

            “Ready to head home ‘Ren,” Minnie’s bright green eyes looked past her brother towards Bill even as she addressed him. They snapped back to his hazel ones as she continued, “We should get home soon. I want to cook something for daddy.” She turned then, leading the way out. She was taller than Lawrence, by about three inches – though he would swear it was less than that to his grave; beyond it even – her hair black rather than brown, like his, and down to the small of her back. It curled, as did his, but unlike his which had been tamed this morning, her curls bounced lightly as she walked.

            Lawrence lagged behind her, watching. She’s not helpless, not like the small child he’d imagine minutes ago, but Lawrence watched still. He worried, perhaps unrealistically. If you had brought it up to him or asked outright, he would have been entirely confused. _It’s not on purpose,_ He might say, _but necessary._ Or something along the lines of, _I am just being a good big brother is all._

            His worry was not completely unjustified. Minnie had hit her head; hard. Cracking it open on the concert that anchored the swing set into the ground back when they were first graders. She remembered nothing. Lawrence remembered everything.

            They had been playing after school, deemed too young by their father to walk home alone and thus, waiting for him to finish up work in Bangor and pick them up. It was still early on the in the school year, and still hot with summer runoff. So they had decided to play on the swing set – to create their own wind and find some escape from the lingering heat.

 

 

2

            If they had been older the heat would have prevented even swinging, they would have avoided the hot plastic and burning metal, and instead, they would have been sitting in the shade hiding from the sun. But they were not older; they were seven. Lawrence adjusted his shorts, dusty and blue, having ridden up while they played on the seesaw. His white undershirt out in the open as his worn button-down lay haphazardly near their belongings. Along with his sister’s over blouse and long skirt, she was currently playing in her off-white tank top and the shorts their father always made her wear under skirts.

            The sun was still beating down from high above them, making the metal hot to the touch on their bare legs and causing red welts to momentarily appear each time they braved the slide. Having had enough of the temporary burns that caused her olive-tan skin to become bright pink, Minnie had long since abandoned the two slides that glittered in the sunlight.

            Other Derry residents passed by from time to time, glancing at the two on occasion, but they never interfered. Derry was like that. Sometimes it was more like they were simply watching a movie unfold and characters act out stories, with predefined outcomes and unchangeable actions – so why interfere. Just last week Minnie had cried to her brother, and their father, though he wasn’t paying much attention, about how she had seen Henry Bowers being hit by his father. Larry Fabayn, who was trying to listen to the baseball game on the radio, wrote it off as ‘discipline’ and ‘not any of our business,’ and the topic had been left at that.

            Lawrence began stubbornly climbing up the largest of the slides, letting out slight hisses each time his knees hit the hot metal. Eventually, after several more fumbles, he reached the top, which looked out over the playground. It wasn’t really that tall of a slide, and years later on one of those dreadfully heavy days in the summer of 1958 Minnie would reflect on how different things appear as you get older, but for Lawrence, it fell like Mount Everest.

            “Hey Min, look. I am the king of the castle,” he shouted in the direction of his sister.

            She looked up, she’d been kneeling trying to latch her shoes, and for a second Lawrence would swear she was actually looking through him; past him. Then in an instant, she smiled, her long black hair falling forward as she bends back down. She stood, meeting his eyes once again, “If you are the king then what am I?”

            He looked down at her, “The queen?”

            “Yuck! No.”

            “Why not?”

            “I am not marrying you!” She declared, turned, and ran off toward the swings – her hair bouncing behind her.

            “Fine! You’re the enemy then!” He hollered back. She spun once smiling again, then continued on her way pulling the nearest swing to her.

            Across the street, Lawrence noticed a woman pushing a stroller. _There must be a baby in there._ He mused, _did dad ever walk us like that? He must have. Babies need to be walked like dogs after all._ ”        

            An odd wave of jealousy spewed up in him, their mom had never walked them before. She had died not long after they were born, leaving their father the sole caregiver for two three-month-old babies. Walking next to the carrier was a golden retriever, he was clearly an older dog – Lawrence could see the slight grey around the dog’s muzzle as it troughed happily next to his people. The dog never pulled on the leash, even when the stray cat that lived under the house the woman was now passing sprang out. The dog just continued, bright panting smile lazily alongside not even noticing the cat at all. Lawrence was glad about this, he hated dogs. Terrified of them in honesty. He used to have nightmares about a great big dog going rabid and trapping him in the car. He remembers waking up screaming on at least one occasion. Lawrence was always torn between feeling great that their father never allow animals, and sorry that his sister was never given the chance to have the dog she deserved.

            As the walking trio left his sight, Lawrence looked back toward the playground. They were now the only children left in the schoolyard by this point, and judging by the light could be here for another hour or so depending on their father’s job. He went to sit down on the slide and glanced toward the swing set. _Where is Minnie?_ She had been just starting to climb in height when he had noticed the woman and her dog. Curious, but by no means concerned, Lawrence slide down the slide. And after hitting the ground with a thud, and hopping up and down a few times trying to cool off his derriere, he headed off towards the swings.

            “Minnie,” He called still unable to see her. “Are you hiding?” As he moved past the second slide and could see the ground beneath the swing set, he saw her. Minnie was laying at the base of the swings. “You’ll get all dirty down there, dad will get mad.” The closer he got to her, the more things came into view. There was red. Beneath her head, which was resting on the edge of the swing set leg, was blood. A lot of blood. Lawrence was frozen. Unsure of what to do. Did she fall? Was she playing? _No. That wasn’t right._ “Minnie…” His mind was too naïve to really process the events.

            Lawrence slowly moved towards her prone body, as he reached her Lawrence slowly knelt down next to his sister and with a shaky hand reached out to touch her shoulder. He rocked her slowly and her head lulled, falling off the small ledge it had been resting upon. And then he screamed.

            He could see her skull, white underneath red, lines starred out from the place she must have hit the hardest. And so he screamed.

            At that fateful moment, their father happened to pull up along the road near the entrance. Before Lawrence was even aware of his presence, their father had grabbed Minnie off the ground and – while clinging to her – pulled his screaming son back to the car. Yelling something; unremembered.

 

3

            Minnie led the way as they exited the school building, other children scurrying to put on their snow pants and jackets; some even taking the time to grab school books and folders. Unlike Lawrence, Minnie was skinny and lanky. People often commented that at times they looked more like cousins than twins, having nearly polar opposite builds. The snow was blinding, stark white contrasted against the black snow boots worn by the students running home. The twins were underdressed compared to the others, both pulling their old jackets tight around their shoulders. Minnie’s was slightly newer, as she had outgrown her previous jacket, and the jacket that currently blocked out some of the cold was one with white and accents of pink. Larry Fabayn always found enjoyment in dressing Minnie in pink, despite her obvious abhorrence for the color. Although Lawrence agreed with Minnie, he truly thought pink looked good on her. He remembered hearing their neighbor say something about how pink contrasts her skin in just the right way. His jacket had belonged to their father. The once deep forest green, now faded from years of use, hung off his frame. His olive skin tone fought with the color of the jacket as did his bright blue sweater which could be seen peeking out from under. He briefly wondered if pink would have looked as good on him as it did on his sister.

             The sky was dark when they passed through the school door and walked into the courtyard. The clouds filtering the sun creating a grey cover. As they walked through the buried playground, Lawrence looked left and shuddered lightly at the sight of the swing-set. He then turned his eyes back towards his sister, pausing at the skin just visible under her hair near her left temple. Though faded, a scar could still be seen there from the fall. She had been lucky, at least that is what Lawrence remembers the doctors saying. Fractured skull. She had managed to fall off the swings and fracture her skull. Following the events of that September day, Minnie had been diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Seizures. Something that Lawrence had to look up in the library once he was old enough to understand it. From what he understood, the blow to the head had caused Minnie to retreat into her own mind at times – petit mal seizures their dad told him – just tuning out the world around her. Sometimes it lasted for a few minutes, and sometimes it wasn’t just her disappearing into her head. Sometimes it was kind of scary to watch, but only sometimes.

            “Are you even listening to me at all ‘Ren?”

            Lawrence blinked twice before realizing she had been talking to him, “Wha.”

            “Honestly, and people really think I am the one with attention problems? Clearly, they have never met you, huh?” Minnie sighed, “I said, we should try to shovel the driveway before Dad gets home. Once I put dinner on the stove, we can work on that.”

            Lawrence blinked again dumbly, “Hey now, I was listening.”

             “Uh huh,” Minnie swung around again turning down the street. “I don’t know exactly what we have in the house, but I am guessing we have enough for a decent stew.”

             “Yum,” Lawrence jogged to catch up, nearly losing his footing as he turned on the bend.

             Minnie grabbed his arm, which was waving around rather comically as he tried to prevent himself from falling into the road. She started to snicker as he righted himself with her help.

              “Oh shut up,” His tanned olive complexion flashed red for the second time that day.

             She continued to snicker as they walked. Soon the two of them fell into a comfortable silence, and Lawrence realized they were passing near the spot where his imagined girl lost the balloon. There was no trace that someone had been here, he supposed the light snow falling must have already covered the tracks of the balloon’s owner. Despite that being unlikely, Lawrence chose not to question it.

            As they turned down Witcham Street, Lawrence allowed his mind to wander back to Stuttering Bill Denbrough. Every day, multiple times a day, in fact, the twin walked down Witcham Street – walked past the storm drain where Denbrough’s kid brother was found; missing an arm no less. Lawrence remembered the kid. He hadn’t known him well, why would he have? Bill was not really a friend of theirs – though they had been in class together off and on since kindergarten – and the kid, _George_ his mind supplied, had been six. There was no reason for the twins to have known the kid that well, simply one of those faces you recognize in passing or as a neighbor. One of those people you know by sight, but have never really interacted with. The Denbrough’s lived relatively close to the Fabayn’s after all, just down a few houses and across the street. Had George died on a sunny day, rather than the stormy hell which had covered Derry that October, the twins might have even seen him. Now as they trudged through the snow that covered that storm drain, Lawrence felt a chill crawl up his neck and into his hairline. The kid had to have been looking at something, there was no other reason, at least not one that Lawrence could conceive, for a six-year-old to be looking into a drain. _Assuming, of course, that he had been looking into it._

            Lawrence looked down as they passed, his feet sunk into the white snow with a crunch, there could not be anything underneath his feet. He knew that, but still every time they passed over it since October he could have sworn he felt something look at him. His dad called it his overactive imagination, but Lawrence could feel eyes boring into his body each and every time. The feeling, however, was gone before he could truly question it. In the same way that you forget a nightmare upon waking up. Looking up once more, he noticed that Minnie had stopped a few paces ahead of him. Luckily he managed to swerve around her rather than plow right on through.

            “Why’d you stop Mins?” he wondered briefly if she was having one of her seizures, but then she glanced back at him, her eyes cautious. She shifted her eyes back to across the street; she was looking at the Denbrough’s.

           William Denbrough, Stuttering Bill’s father, was shoveling snow. Since he worked for the city, he probably had the day off Lawrence’s mind provided. Mr. Denbrough looked up and bobbed his head towards them. The action was melancholy. There was no smile, no other acknowledgment, just the nod.  

           “I feel bad for that family,” Minnie whispered softly as they continued down the street. “I mean,” she paused dropping her voice even lower, as though she thought Mr. Denbrough might hear her, “Christmas is a kid’s holiday, you know?”

           Lawrence didn’t answer. He knew she understood, probably better than most kids in Derry. This year, that little Denbrough kid would not be running around the house asking to open presents. He wouldn’t annoy his big brother with his new Legos or BB gun. He would be buried under dirty, ice, and snow; dead. Of course, he wasn’t the only kid unable to celebrate the holiday because they had found new residence at the cemetery south of town. Lawrence knew the Corcoran family was in a similar situation. Minnie had befriended Eddie Corcoran some time ago, and she had known Eddie’s litter brother Dorsey too. Arguably better than either of the twins had known the Denbrough kid. The poor kid had died after falling off a later some time before the Denbrough kid’s death. At least that is what the officials said, but Minnie mentioned that Eddie questioned it. 

           The two didn’t speak for a minute or so, then continued on in silence. Eventually turning on West Broadway. The Fabayn house was located just on the corner of West Broadway and Witcham. It was older, paint chipped in some places and the railing leading up the steps to the front door rocked just slightly as the twins used it, but it had clearly been a beauty in its day. The house was two stories, built sometime in their father’s youth, and it was inherited from their grandfather years before they were born. The house was not that large, originally it had only two bedrooms but as a gift for their sixth birthday the twin’s father had divided the larger upstairs bedroom into two with a few sheets of plywood and added a second door so they each had their own space.   

            Minnie still led the way, pushing aside some of the snow which had managed to get onto their front porch despite the roof overhead, and unlocked the front door with the key that hung around her neck. With a bit of a shove, she opened the door and flipped the light switch closest to the entrance. The light flickered, then illuminated the living room. To their left was an old couch, deep blue and dusty, at an angle in front of it sat the rather small television on a large old table. To their left, the stairs leading to the second floor, and further ahead was the dining room table which could seat four, an old fridge and stove set, and a small sink under an equally small window. The bathroom was located on the right of the short hallway, modest in size and clearly used, across from it was their father’s bedroom. The right side of his bed fully used and partially indented, the left side practically untouched; it had been their mother’s.

           Minnie walked toward the kitchen depositing her things in one of the chairs that stood by the table, Lawrence turned right and headed upstairs. The upstairs was filled with the soft glow coming from outside and was further brightened when he pulled the light. Boxes filled the far side of the room. Boxes that were filled with things that had once belonged to their mother. Still untouched after eleven-years. Lawrence passed them without a glance and walked into his open bedroom, which was located on the right. It wasn’t a large room, identical in size to his sister, but it had a twin bed up against the wall. The unmade bed covered in green and black sheets with a dark brown blanket falling partially onto the floor. Lawrence walked to his dresser and turned on the desk lamp, he then set his things down next to his bed and looked out the window. The snow had stopped falling, which was a blessing if they intended to shovel the drive.

          “Lawrence! Are you going to help or not?” Minnie called up from the kitchen.

           “Yeah, yeah.” He then muttered much quieter, “Don’t go having a cow.”

            He made his way back down stairs and into the kitchen. Minnie noticed but didn’t look up from where she was cutting potatoes, her skirt now replaced with a pair of his old jeans that had once belonged to their father as well. “Go ahead and fill the pot with water and get the stove going. Then you can peel the onion.”

            He silently did as he was asked. Together they managed to get everything into the pot and cooking. Within an hour of being home, they once again replaced their inside clothes with their warm jackets, and a couple pairs of gloves they took from their father’s underwear drawer and headed back outside to get the driveway cleared before he returned from work.

            After some hard work and a snowball or two, the twins finished the driveway leading to their house. Together they had piled the excess snow up on the yard, hoping to make forts with it the following day. It was still early in the afternoon, perhaps six o’clock, and the sun would be out for another half hour or so.

           Next door the Fabayn’s neighbor came out onto the porch. Mr. Collins was an older man, probably at least fifteen years older than their own father, he was wearing an old flannel jacket and trousers. His feet only covered with slippers, clearly, he was not planning on leaving that porch. “If you shovel our driveway, I’ll give you each a buck. If you finish before the Mrs. gets home, I’ll give you each two and have her bring over an apple pie tomorrow afternoon.”

            “Sure thing Mr. Collins.”

            “No problem, we need more snow for our battle zone tomorrow!” Minnie added with a smile, “We are missing ammo.”

             Mr. Collins laughed, the deep laugh that resonates deep in the stomach. The twins always thought Mr. Collins was a bit like Santa Claus that way. Sure, his hair was only speckled with grey and he was relatively fit given his age but he laughed with more emotion and joy than any other person they had ever met. His wife too was a happy person. She always made sure to bring over sweets for the twins.

            On holidays, like Thanksgiving, she would come knock on the door saying, “Oh, I’m glad you’re home.” She would laugh and step aside revealing some unthinkable amount of food, “I, well, I just made too much again. I keep thinking my children still live at home.” Even the twins knew that the Collins never had any children, and they would always leave it unquestioned. “And, well, I wanted to share.”

             The twins walked across their clear driveway and began shoveling the other. It took a bit longer than theirs did, partially because the loads of snow had to be brought back to their yard. They wrapped up just the sun crested over the trees.

             “Ren, I need to go check the stove. Dad will kill us if he knows we left it unattended for so long.” Minnie’s nose was bright red, the glisten of snot just shinning enough to be noticed.

             “No sweat. Hey, at least wait until you are back inside will you,” He grabbed her hands, preventing her from fully removing the gloves, which she had started to take off the second the decision was made. “It’s cold out here.”

             Her oval eyes crinkled in soft admiration and love, green eyes sparkling like the snow which surrounded them. “Right, right,” even while she said this she removed the gloves.

             Lawrence waited, watching her shuffle to the houses and stomp the snow off before going into to check on dinner. Once she was out of sight, he started shoveling the final piece of the Collins’ drive. The sun was no longer causing the clouds to defused grey light, and twilight was just starting to set on the corner of Witcham and West Broadway. As Lawrence dug into the snow again, the street lights above him popped on. With the newly added illumination, Lawrence noticed footprints in the snow he was about to lift off the ground.

             The prints were large, clearly not made by him or his sister, and he knew that Mr. Collins had been home most of the day; he had retired a few years ago. It was odd. If these footprints had belonged to Mr. Collins, then why were they leading away from his house?

_Shouldn’t they be filled with snow by now, she had left this morning to work at the hospital?_

            He shook his head and continued with the job at hand. Once the final few shovelfuls were delivered to the twin’s stronghold – that currently looked as though a massive snow drift passed by only blowing snow into a single point with some kind of supernatural accuracy – he placed the shovel back against the side of the house. After readjusting his pants, Lawrence decided to go collect the money he and his sister had just made. On his way to the Collins’ door, however, his eyes wandered back to the footprints in the snow. Before he was aware of what he was doing, he was standing inches away from one.

_Was that mud?_ He had crouched down upon noticing the darker portion of the print. It appeared brown in the dim light, but it could have been red. He looked up, and for the first time noticed that there were more prints leading down the road. He checked first, then walked out into the street to see where they might lead.

            He counted; _one, two, three, four…_ They led back up Witcham Street towards Jackson. In the dimness, Lawrence couldn’t tell exactly how many there were, but they seemed to lead…

            He felt his heart beat jump. The footprints were leading to the storm drain half way down the street. The storm drain where the Denbrough boy was found, he was sure they led there. Lawrence’s eye widened comically, he swore he could see something _IN_ the drain. Eyes. He could see eyes in the drain. Whatever it was, it was watching him; staring at him the way he stared at it. It moved, shifted, now Lawrence could see it’s mouth. Was it smiling?

            “Boy.”

            Lawrence jumped and spun around. Mr. Collins was back on his porch, four dollar bills in hand, and an oddly concerned look on his face. “Lawrence, what are you doing in the road? Get out of there before someone blindsides you.”

            He hadn’t realized that he’d been moving down the street, towards the drain until that moment, and now he was almost too far to be seen by his neighbor. “I was…” but the words died on his tongue. He was what? Going to go look in the storm drain. Lawrence looked back, whatever had been smiling at him was gone now. Frightened, though he wasn’t sure exactly why he quickly made his way back to Mr. Collins’ porch. “I thought I saw something. I guess.”

            The older man gave him a look, not so much questioning as one of unvoiced concern. “Well, you shouldn’t stand in the road. With the weather like it is, a car wouldn’t be able to stop for you. You understand? Wouldn’t want your father to hit you.” He patted the boy’s shoulder, “Here is your payment. Now don’t forget, two of those belong to your sister.” And he handed over the money.

            With his unease mostly forgotten, Lawrence took the money with a grin. “Thank you, Mr. Collins! We will spend it wisely.”

            “ _pssht._ ” Joseph Collins elongated the sound, “I don’t want you to ‘spend it wisely.’ I want you to spend it on something fun.”

            His fear now completely washed away, Lawrence smirked up at the man. “We can do that.”

            “Then go on. Get inside and help your sister.” He laughed as he patted the boy again on the shoulder. He watched as the young boy ran back to his house and all but threw open the door. Then the older man looked down the street.

 

 

5

            When their father got home, about a half hour later, he was once again shocked to know his children would do so much without being asked. Together they sat down for dinner and discussed the snow battle that was going to take place tomorrow, how many products their father had sold, and what they were hoping to get for Christmas; Lawrence never thought to mention the face from the drain. He had seemed to forget the encounter entirely, if not for dreams he faced that night.

 

 

6

             The sun was just above the tree line when the twins, already dressed warmly and feed, began working on their snow kingdoms. Their father, on occasion, would come outside snap a photo or bring a cup of hot cocoa and then retreat back into the warm. Other times he would come out, boots on, and help them plan their attack. Going to and from each of his children, giving different – yet helpful – battle advice. He even helped them build their respective forts, never taking over designs but hinting heavily if something needed to be changed.

             Larry Fabayn worked hard. Every day he would drive to Bangor, some days to Portland, selling miscellaneous things for the companies he was contracted under. He would have to leave his two children alone; occasionally from before dawn until well after dark. When they were younger, he would have to inform the Collins whenever he was planning on being gone longer than normal. Joseph and Ingrid Collins loved his children as if they were their own grandkids, for which he was thankful. After Minnie’s accident, Larry put more responsibility on Lawrence. He would ask him to keep an eye on her, help her, and watch out for her. It was unfair. At times, Larry felt like he was the worst parent. Never around, asking his seven or eight-year-old son to watch his ‘younger’ sister; who was the exact same age. 

            When lunchtime came around Larry called his children into the house to warm up. He dished out stew from last night and even served some apple pie that Mrs. Collins had brought to the house while they were building. It was a quick turnaround, both of the children scarfing down the food in an attempt to get back outside in as little time as possible.

            Less than twenty minutes later they were back outside. Lawrence was putting the final touches on his fort. Each of the walls were currently four feet high and his snowball horde was nearly fifty deep. He hadn’t looked at Minnie’s, but if he knew his sister – and he did – she was going to overachieve. He turned and glanced behind him. His back was exposed, with the street at his rear. For a second his mind flashed back to the thing he saw in the sewer yesterday and a chill ran through him, bringing goose flesh to his skin.

           The feeling was short lived. A sudden attack – a snowball launched over his defenses and collided with his face. It had begun.

 

 

7

            Christmas came and went. As did the new year. School would be starting up again in just a couple more days and Lawrence was enjoying his freedom. Minnie was taking a bath, and he was lounging on the worn sofa with the television playing something in the background. Their father had returned to work, he was only able to take a day off, so the twins were on their own. Although, he had been even more reluctant than usual. Betty Ripsom, a girl from the grade above the twins, was found just one day after Christmas; dead. She was on Outer Jackson Street, and while Lawrence did not know the details it was clear that whatever had happened to her had their father on edge. Everyone on Derry was on edge recently. It had been a bad year, with three young children dead long before their time. People were starting to talk, claim that the killer was hunting children. This seemed a bit farfetched, to Lawrence anyway, it was true that George Denbrough and Betty Ripsom were murdered but Eddie Corcoran’s little brother had been killed in an accident. Perhaps it was his age, but Lawrence preferred to ignore the events of the last year.

           Lawrence sighed heavily, the last day of vacation was always the worst. When the phone started ringing, he lazily rolled off the couch and wandered to the phone.

           “Fabayn residence, Lawrence speaking,” he yawned into the receiver.

           “Lawrence, it’s dad.”

           “Really? Couldn’t tell,”

           Larry laughed, “Listen, I am still hoping to be back around five this evening. But they are doing construction – for some god known reason – and it might add about a half hour to the trip.”

           “That’s fine dad. We are good here, you don’t have to rush.”

           “I know you are. Could you take the trash out? I was going to do it when I get back, but you know how noisy that bin can be.”

           “No sweat.” Lawrence stretched. “I’ll do it now, while Min is in the tub.”

           “Good.” Larry paused, something hung in the air. It was sad almost; longing. “I am proud of you son. I know I don’t say it often, but I…”

           “Dad stop. Get back to work. I am sure we will have something cooked up by the time you get back tonight.”

           The twin’s father laughed deeply, “Yes, sir.” He added jokingly, “See you tonight.”

           “Yeah, bye.” Lawrence placed the phone down without waiting for a response. He shuffled towards the kitchen and gathered the garbage. Placing it by the door, he walked up to his room to grab his jacket.

           As he approached the front door again, he called over his shoulder, “Min! I’m taking the trash out!!” He wasn’t sure what her response was, but he definitely heard one.

           He shoved his feet into his father’s snow boots – which were significantly larger than Lawrence’s own – grabbed the trash and pulled open the door. The battle zone still stood outside the door, some walls had collapsed with the impact of bodies others had increased in height with the addition of new snow. There was also a snowman, which was built following the signing of the peace treaty – introduced by Sir Larry Fabayn as the sun went down – the round man was still wearing the plaid scarf and baseball cap.

           On the clear driveway, close to the house, stood the garbage bin. Lawrence struggled for a full minute, trying to pry the frozen lid open, before tossing the kitchen trash into its open mouth. Then he grasped the edge with his bare hands and began to drag it toward the curb. With some difficulty, he managed to maneuver it into the proper position. He pulled his hands away, closing them gingerly trying to regain feeling in the thin digits. And then he heard it.

           It wasn’t a voice, at least he did not think it was. The sound was coming from across the street, a wounded sound. Lawrence thought maybe it was the black and grey stray cat, called Ember by his sister, which Minnie would sneak into her bedroom when she thought the men of the house weren’t paying attention. His heart constricted at the thought of having to tell his sister that something had happened to the cat she loved so dearly. Shoving his hands into his warm pockets, Lawrence hopped off the curb and walked carefully across the street.

          The cry was certainly louder on this side, and now that he thought about it he was sure it was Ember. Slowing his pace, he cupped hands around his mouth and called softly, “Ember, here kitty kitty.” _Where was the sound coming from?_ He crouched and looked under the hedges that shielded the neighbor’s front yard from view. The sound was coming from somewhere.

          He backed up, back onto the street in order to get a better view. “Did you get stuck down there Ember?” The sound was coming from the storm drain. The one that could be seen from the Fabayn’s front window. “Ember,” Lawrence tried calling again as he got even closer to the opening. He could see movement in the dark and was going to reach into the drain to see if he could feel the cat when a car honked its horn and swerved to avoid his legs.

           When his heart rate settled, Lawrence looked back into the drain. Then he heard a rustle from the bushes he had looked around earlier. From his knees, he could see Ember. She was curled up in a ball under the foliage.

           Suddenly he couldn’t breathe if she was under the bushes then what was down in the drain? What had he been reaching for?

           He lowered himself again, hoping to get a better look into the darkness. As he leaned in, a hand shot out from the black.

           Lawrence screamed and pushed himself backward, falling harshly on his butt sliding farther into the street. One of his father’s oversized shoes nearly slipping off his foot. The icy water slowly began to seep into his pants and his fingers were buried into the snow. The hand was gone. _I imagined it. I had to have imagined it._ Lawrence stood up, his eyes never leaving the drain, his heart still racing and pounding painfully in his chest. After sliding a couple times, he was finally stable on his feet.

           Taking a shuddered breath, Lawrence took a step back.

            Something brushed up against his leg and he froze. His eyes widened, even more, darting to the side, but his body was stuck. He couldn’t turn around, he was motionless. The thing bumped at his leg again, making Lawrence jump. He closed his eyes tight.

            A moment passed and nothing happened. Forcing himself, he slowly turned. When he was once again facing the house, he opened his eyes. A balloon. A red balloon, like the one he had seen on the last day of school. He felt threatened, hunted, then tripped over the curb and fell again onto his back. He heard Ember flee from under the bush behind him, and the realization that his legs now hung over the drain. The drain where something lived.

            Lawrence pulled his legs to him, hearing the fabric of his pants tear on something. Then he looked up. The balloon was now moving towards his house, and alarm bells deafened him. With some frantic certainty, certainty that whatever was in the drain was now going after his sister. Lawrence scrambled to his feet and ran, ran as though a bomb was being dropped, back to his house. He slipped twice. The first causing him to gouge cuts into his palm as he fell onto the street, and the second taking out the last of the standing wall his fort had.

            “Minnie!” He tried to yell as the door bashed into the wall, but he had no voice. “Minnie!” He tried again, this time the word broke on his tongue. Coming out instead as ‘Mnn-y.’ He reached the bathroom door before he called again, the name finally escaping his lips.

            Silence

            Without thought, Lawrence reached for the handle and turned the knob with unfathomable desperation. It was locked. “Minnie! Minnie, open the door.” He banged on it again, the blood on his palms staining the wood. “Please, open the door.”

            The silence continued. Panicked, Lawrence looked back to the front door which still hung wide open and saw the balloon fluttering by the entrance. Pulling away from the bathroom door, Lawrence charged nearly tripping over a chair and slammed the door closed, sobbing.

            “Lawrence, what the…” Minnie stood just outside the bathroom door, her hair dripping hanging limp against her glistening body, the grey-green towel clutched to her otherwise naked body. “Lawrence! What the hell happened?” She was by him in a second curling the towel under so that she didn’t need to hold it. “What the fuck did you do to your hands?”

            He began to sob, hysteric choppy sobbing, and his hands – which were held tightly by Minnie – curled towards his face.

            She watched confused and concerned. “Lawrence. Come on. What the fuck happened?” when he still didn’t respond, she pulled him to his feet and brought him into her open arms. “Shhh, it’s okay. Whatever happened, it’s alright.” They stood there for a few minutes until one of them – or perhaps both – began to shiver from the water that still hung onto them. “Let’s get those hands cleaned up ‘Ren.” Minnie kept her arms on him and brought him into the bathroom. The room was still covered lightly in steam a small puddle of water stood at the edge of the bath, from where she had stumbled out upon hearing the door slam.

            She sat him down on the closed toilet seat and grabbed another towel from under the sink, never releasing her hold on him. Then she brought it to his hands, carefully wiping the blood from the scraps. By now the sobs had turned into hiccups, and Minnie looked up to catch his eyes. “You alright now ‘Ren?”

            Just the question set him off into another wave of tears. _Am I alright?_ His mind questioned, almost angrily. In that second, through his tears and his fear, he knew he couldn’t tell her – tell anyone – what he thought he saw. It was ridiculous; a hand in a storm drain; a magic balloon. It was crazy. He laughed, thickly, through his tears as Minnie stared at him in worry, “Nothing. I was…” He took a deep breath, sucking in snot and shaking his head, “I thought something happened.” And he left it at that.

            She watched him carefully, eyes somewhat unbelieving – a look Lawrence always hated on his sister – as she continued to clean his cuts. “’Ren.” She sighed and lowered her head for a moment. “Jesus! You’re soaking wet!” Her exclamation was punctuated as she stood up. “Lawrence Paul Fabayn, what the hell were you doing? You said you were taking out the fucking trash, not going for a swim in the street. And – and the next thing you are slamming the front door.”

            “Stop cursing.”

            “I’ll stop when you tell me what the hell happened.” She turned and grabbed the night shirt which hung on a hook opposite them, “close your eyes for a second.” Without checking to see if he had, she quickly threw the shirt over her head and allowed the towel to fall toward the floor. The shirt had once belonged to their father and stopped just short of her knees. “Strip. I am going to grab you clothes. You are going to get out of that wet-“

            “No!” She stared at him again more alarmed this time than concerned and he continued, “I mean. Let’s just both go upstairs and I’ll change.” He looked down at his hands and the towel she had placed in them. The bleeding had stopped, but the rough ragged skin was still torn and raw.

            “Alright…” Minnie conceded picking up the towel she had dropped and placing it on the hook.

            Together they exited the bathroom and walked through the kitchen to the stairs. Lawrence paused to glance out the window. There was no balloon. The storm drain was now blocked by a car. He tried to convince himself that it was all imagined. Once upstairs they separated, going to their own rooms. Both emerging minutes later. He could feel his sister’s eyes on him but chose to not acknowledge it as he led the way back down to the kitchen.

            “Does tuna casserole sound good for dinner?” she didn’t wait for a reply and walked past Lawrence once they reached the base of the stairs. Her hair was still damp, though now braided, and the long shirt was accompanied by oversized pants. _Probably tied as tight as they can be._

            “Sounds fine,” Lawrence’s voice was still rough and sore from the ordeal. He decided to sit in the dining room as she started getting the ingredients together. “Why didn’t you answer?”

            Minnie hummed in response, now rummaging through the cupboard.

            “When I knocked on the bathroom door, why didn’t you answer? I mean, I was banging on that thing for…I don’t know, a while.”

            She stilled, as though she was unsure whether or not to answer the question. For a second Lawrence was afraid that her answer would deal with hands reaching out of the toilet or balloons bouncing against the window.

            “I think I had a seizure,” she admitted softly, then continued to rummage. “I was washing my hair and then the front door slammed shut.” She paused again, “I don’t really remember the in-between.”

               They were silent. It was not unusual for that to happen, though it had become less common as they got older. Lawrence’s thought about what would have happened if she’d been the one to take the trash out when it happened. Would she have been hit by that car? Or worse, would the thing have gotten her like it had tried to get him? Only she wouldn’t have even been aware it was coming. Lawrence shivered, “keep the door unlocked from now on. You know, in case someone needs to check on you.”

            Again he received nothing but a hum in response.

 

 

8

            For the next two weeks, Lawrence felt as though he was going insane. He would catch himself staring into the drain across the street. He would be hesitant to take a shower after gym. He knew that it had to have been his mind playing tricks on him. There wasn’t something living in the sewers. He probably just got spooked by a shadow that day, nothing more. It was just happenstance that Minnie had a fit when he felt like something was going to happen to her. She had not been in real danger. She had been safe, in their bathroom, in the house no less.

            Yet somewhere in the back of his mind, he was remembered that the bathroom was directly connected with the sewer. Connected with the place that _nothing_ lived in. He was not crazy. Whatever had happened, if had to have been real.

            _Maybe the young Denbrough kid…_

            “Stop.”

            “What? Stop what, ‘Ren?” Minnie had turned to him. The two had been sitting outside the library on the far end of Kansas Street.

            “Nothing.”

            Minnie looked at him strangely but said nothing further. This had become a theme with them over the last week or so. She clearly knew something was wrong. He felt bad for not saying anything, but what else could you do.

            It was still winter in Derry that was certain. Though rain had come through and melted most of the snow. Lawrence looked away from his sister, watching people come and go from the library. That fat kid – _Ben? Yeah, Ben_ – walked by them arms full of books. Lawrence had seen a few other classmates, including Henry Bowers. For once the bully wasn’t torturing some unsuspecting kid. A girl, and older girl, with rose blonde hair, was talking to him. Talking to Bowers and his buddies, but from what Lawrence could see, she was paying special attention to Bowers and Victor Criss. She would lean in far enough that their arms would brush up against her breasts. Lawrence cringed and looked away.

            He could see McCarron Park from their spot outside the library too. Only a few people seemed be enjoying this blistery cold Saturday afternoon. Lawrence grimaced at the large dog, Neville, bounding around a tall scrawny kid. The kid,   Lawrence thinks, is in the grade above them – he lives just a couple houses from the Fabayn’s home and from time to time the three of them have hung out – the kid, Wilson, had glasses that would give that clown Tozier a run for his money.

            Lawrence’s gawking was suddenly interrupted by Minnie speaking, though not to him, “Eddie! What are you doing here? I thought you said your step dad had you grounded?”

            Eddie Corcoran smiled slightly, “Yeah, but I was sent out to get stuff from the pharmacy.”

            Lawrence tuned out the rest of the short conversation, merely nodding and bidding farewell when the boy left. He was never really one for close friendships or conversations that was more Minnie’s department. They settle back down on the bench and Lawrence allowed his mind to drift again.

            “’Ren. ‘Ren… Lawrence,” Minnie repeated.

            He looked to her, realizing that some time had passed. The sun, which was still relatively high when Eddie had interrupted them early, now started to wain; cresting above the trees.

            “We need to start heading home.” Minnie spoke softly, as though to a child, “Dad wanted us to clean our bedrooms before he gets back. Remember?”

            Lawrence nodded slowly and stood, “right.”

            There was another moment of stillness before the set off down Kansas Street. Lawrence could sense Minnie’s slight hesitation, and he felt guilty for causing her to worry but the situation was just too unbelievable to explain. The January chill whipped across the ground as the twins slowly passed by the assorted buildings eventually creating a whistling sound as it crashed into the bridge.

            Lawrence heard it then. Just the same as in his dreams. A laugh. Goose flesh bubbled to the surface again causing his hair to stand on end. He looked towards Minnie. If she had heard anything, her face held no indication of it. Lawrence yet again feared he might simply be going insane.

            “Lawrence~”

            Lawrence stopped. The twins had just started crossing the bridge which crossed the Barrens, beyond the sight of the establishments they’d passed mere minutes before. Lawrence was certain, dead certain, that someone – something – just called his name from somewhere beneath him.

            A few steps later, Minnie stopped and turned back around questioningly.

            The laugh echoes from beneath a second time.

            “Don’t you hear that?” Lawrence’s voice was tagged with a frantic undertone. Desperate and needing.

            She blinked at him uncertainly, clearly startled by the question.

            “Only you little Larry Jr.” the disembodied voice joked. It sounded joyful; terrifyingly joyful. Like a cat playing with its prey. “Only you, but she’ll come around. Just wait and see.”

            Lawrence didn’t know how to react, his body frozen. _What was this? What was happening to him?_ “Make it stop.” He finally muttered aloud.

            “Make what stop Lawrence?” Minnie was now just in front of him, bent over just enough to look him straight in the eye. “Lawrence, what are you talking about?” Her voice quivered.

            The last thing Lawrence wanted was for her to be scared, especially if he was just going crazy. “I…” his voice caught, cutting off before the syllable was even completed. He looked at her, her fearful eyes likely a direct match for his own.

            “Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of the Fabayn twins. Be they alive, or be they dead, I’ll grind their bones to make my bread.”

            The voice was moving. It was moving. It was climbing up the embankment. Lawrence’s wide eyes stretched and followed the new laughter. It was coming up from behind Minnie. Slowly, agonizingly slow as though he was in slow motion, Lawrence grabbed her shoulders, forcing her behind him.

            “What’s that sound?” Minnie whispered inches away from his ear. “Lawrence, who is laughing?” her frightened urgency sparked something in him. She grasped his hand.

            The laughter stopped, shifted, replaced by growling. A deep, unearthly, hungry growl which seemed to gurgle some thick unknown substance.

            A dense black tar like head began to emerge from behind the hedges by the edge of the bridge. Wet and sticky sounds followed.

_Squish-squelch-swick-squish_

             Lawrence could feel Minnie freeze behind him, but could not do anything. Whatever had been torturing him was about to show itself.

             The smell of sewage and bile reached him, and Lawrence felt his body recoil. Minnie made a gagging noise at his back and bumped into him lightly. She tried to pull her hand out of his grasp, but he only tightened his hold.

              _If I let go Min. If I let go of you, we will never be together again. It will be the end._ He felt his eyes well with that thought; at the certainty of it.

             She tugged again, and he was sure he must be hurting her, but letting her go would be worse.

             A branch broke, the cracking noise resonating like thunder, and the large tar creature flopped onto the road, rolling forward leaving globs of red-black goo in its wake. It smelled of rotted bile and looked like a mixture of blood and mud. The ground seemed to crack under the weight, loud snaps and pops followed every shift. The misshapen creature lurched forward again, revealing orange glob like buttons that cascaded down it’s front. The thing laughed more, wet and garbled.

             Suddenly the creature launched forward, landing at Lawrence’s feet and gurgled; belching more red-black tar.

             “Run.” Lawrence’s voice was calm, older than he would ever be. “Minnie, run for me.” He then released her hand and looked back at her. Her eyes wide, afraid, beyond afraid, the green glistening with unshed tears and a hint of undoubtable recognition. “Go.” He could tell she was fighting with herself, but he felt a weight lifted as she turned back towards town.

             Lawrence could hear her screaming for help, begging, ripping her voice apart in desperation. Then his own scream filled the void and a resounding crunch broke from within.

 

 

9

             Two minutes. It had been less than two minutes before the workers at Costello’s mart came out after hearing Minnie’s screams. Two minutes before Neville, Wilson’s German Shepard, howled while his owner stared unsure at his friend from several yards away; before that rose haired girl that had been flirting with Bowers and Criss, jumped at the shrill sounds that spread throughout the street.

             Twenty eight minutes later, Minnie was sitting in the waiting room at Derry Home Hospital. The police had just managed to get ahold of Larry Fabayn, who was now rushing to get back from Portland.

             She sat there, silent, staring at the floor, as large pale frighten tears slowly spill out from her eyes.

             In the emergency room, a near white Lawrence Fabayn’s heart stopped beating. Having lost the blood needed to keep it going; through the hole which had been ripped into his side.

             “Minnie,” the young nurse stopped feet from her waiting for a response.

             Sluggishly Minnie lifted her head, blood shot eyes boring into the nurse’s soul, causing the older woman to shudder. “He’s gone.” More liquid filled her eyes and hastily she brought fists to them bending forward. Sobbing silently.


	3. Charles

1

School was boring. At least that was the opinion of Charles Newbit. The young boy sat restlessly in his classroom, shifting around while his teacher read aloud to the class. His school outfit crinkled from lack of care, something his mother hates, and his auburn hair just as messy. Though, his mother had tamed it before sending him off previously that morning. His parents had said, back when summer was waning and the new school years was fast approaching, that it was going to be fun to go to school. It would be fun and new; he would be learning something new every day. They had said that before he even noticed he was no longer at home, he’d have friends by the dozens. They even tried to bargain, claiming that it would beat staying at home with his cat Aspirin and listening to his mother teach piano lessons. Charles supposed they hadn’t been entirely wrong, it was fun sometimes. Although, he _did_ notice he was gone and he _would_ rather be at home with his orange fluff ball.

Sure the short auburn-haired boy had made friends, which really was not the problem. Their parents had become the problem. Ever since Georgie Denbrough had left, parents just didn’t like their kids wandering around alone. Even though that had been back before Halloween, and now it was almost Easter the parents had yet to let it go. Charles did not understand, not really. 

Charles’ teacher started to put away the book and within seconds all of the young children in the class were up and grabbing jackets. His brown eyes squinted against the sun when he and his fellow classmates were finally allowed into the playground after reading hour. Charles ran with them out the door, all of whom were excited about finally being allowed outdoors. The beginning of spring had come in with furry. Nowhere near as powerful or wet as the previous October had been, when George left, but it had still been worse than prior years. He was still trying to pull on his jacket as the group made their mad dash to the swing-set, it was a struggle to pull up the second sleeve without falling behind the others. He would have just let the jacket fall if his mother had not demanded he wear it when outside.

Not that many six-year-olds cared whether or not they were wet or cold. The day George Denbrough had died, Charles and his older sister, Elizabeth, had been playing lava monster. Running around outside their parents’ home, pretending that all the water was molten lava. Originally they had been playing indoors, at least until their mother’s piano student had shown up around three thirty in the afternoon, then outside they went. It was harder to play lava monster when the lava was falling from the sky, but it was also somehow more entertaining. They had managed to create a makeshift lava protection fort, with a couple empty garbage cans and a piece of plywood they found behind the cans. In the end, Charles had been covered nearly head to toe in mud while his sister was just sopping wet. He was old enough to know he was lucky to have a sister willing to play with him the way she did, but not old enough to express it.

They had still been outside when all the commotion had occurred on Witcham Street, and even though they were not particularly close to the site the sirens seemed just as loud as if they had been driving down their own street. Their mother had come out, calling them to come back inside; near hysterics. The young girl whom she had been teaching piano too stood awkwardly off to the side until her own mother had returned to retrieve her.

That’s when Charles discovered what ‘dead’ was. When his mother had gotten off the phone later that day, after talking with some other kid’s parents, she was crying ‘Wayne. Will Denbrough’s youngest son was killed! Killed! I just can’t believe it! This isn’t supposed to happen. Isn’t this supposed to be a safe town? He was just out for a minute. Alone for a minute, and ending up dead. The thought.’

So when his father had turned to him later that evening, Charles had asked. Dead was like sleeping, except you weren’t going to wake up his dad had explained. The thought intrigued Charles after all, sleeping was a great thing to do.  

Charles had smiled at that saying, somewhat cheekily, “then I wanta be dead! Sleeping is great.” His father had visually shrank a little and then pulled Charles into a rather tight hug. He did not say anything, but Charles could feel him shaking a little. Being dead must not being like sleeping after all.

He’d asked Elizabeth later, she’d explained it to him as being ‘nothing’ and ‘gone.’

Charles was less excited about his sister’s version of death. Regardless, he knew a few things for sure; George Denbrough was dead and he wasn’t coming back; the adults are scared. The prior was a bit sad, Georgie was fun to play with and he often brought extra sweets (smuggled into his sack lunch by his brother each morning) that he would share with his classmates. Charles wished Elizabeth would stash sweets in his bag before school each morning. Sadly he wasn’t as lucky as George had been. She would give him an extra scope of ice cream whenever she could though.

It was obvious, even to the six-year-old, that something had the grownups scared. Not the ‘I wasn’t supposed to do that, now I’m going to get caught’ kind of scared either. His parents were afraid the same way he was when Elizabeth had told him the troll trapped in their backyard was going to escape and turn him to stone.

 

 

2

Some hours later, after school had ended, Charles was sitting on his front porch eating pieces of apple his mother had cut for him. She had peeled the apple, removing its green sour shell, and leaving only the tasty part behind. Charles’s father was never willing to peel apples, instead giving them to his children whole. While he loved his father dearly, and often missed him when he was working, Charles liked the way his mom cut his apples. His dad was good at telling stories and explaining things, whereas his mother was good at cooking and understanding; an ideal world if Charles had any say.

Speaking of his father, Charles was currently waiting for him to return home. His mother and sister were inside playing piano, and while Charles was not allowed beyond the porch alone – he was allowed to sit on the steps and wait for his father.

Wayne Newbit was a professor at Husson College in Bangor. Each day he would leave the lovely house and his family to teach biology, normally returning sometime in the early evening. Other times Dr. Newbit would stay late at the university, helping out his graduate assistants or holding study groups for his students.

On those occasions, Charles’ mother would get off the phone with an annoyed – somewhat defeated – sigh. Often ending the conversation with some variation of ‘yes, dear. I know you want to show your gratitude to your students,’ and end with the phone being forced back onto the cradle. She’d then smile towards her young son and go back into the kitchen to prepare a different meal or into the parlor to play the piano. Either way, the next hour would consist of angry pounding; of meat or of ivory. Eventually leading with the three Newbits going out for dinner and their mother ordering a glass or two of wine. Then ending with a somewhat drunk Elaine Newbit getting the manager of the restaurant to call a taxi, whom she would practically make carry her to the front door – all the while flirting like a woman ten years younger and unmarried.

Sometime in the night, long after the children were asleep and his wife passed out on the couch, Wayne Newbit would return, parking the car outside the house, taking a taxi to the restaurant he knows they went to, and drive the second car back home. If the day had been a good one, he would kindly carry his wife back to the bedroom before retiring for the night. If not, he would go himself leaving her alone in the living room until morning.

Charles, of course, didn’t fully understand the workings of his parent’s relationship. Things proceeded as they always had. He did, however, wonder why his father would continue to stay out so late knowing what would happen.

He had asked his sister once, he asks her a great deal honestly, why their parents seemed to always fight about their father’s work.

“He’s banging his students.” She had said casually while working on a homework assignment at the dining room table.

“Banging? Like hitting them,” Charles had asked at the time. “That’s mean.”

She had snorted in response but said no more. Simply shaking her head and mumbling something under her breath.

Now, just finishing up his last slice of apple, Charles was hoping tonight was not one of those nights. He missed his dad.

Thankfully, his wishes were answered because moments later the old – but well maintained – station wagon pulled into the driveway. Its cherry red paint still shinning with the setting sun. Wayne Newbit exited the care with a bright, but tired smile, “Evening Chuck. Your mother and sister know you are out here?”

Charles whined loudly at the nickname, “Dad…of course they know. Momma said I could.”

“Right, right,” Wayne reached Charles and ruffled his hair before continuing towards the door, “You coming, Chuck?”

“Daddy” He whined again.

The piano was still sounding brightly when they entered the house. “I’m home lovelies.” The tall man placed his briefcase down near the open study, past the stairs on the left side, before turning back towards the piano that was near the front door. Even though his wife and daughter were obviously still playing a song, she reached around Elizabeth’s middle and spun her through the air. “My princess, why no love. Your brother was waiting outside for me and you don’t even look when I come in,” he said through her excited squeal.

“Welcome back Daddy! I missed you.” The eleven-year-old threw herself into his arms the second he had released her.

Placing a loving kiss on her forehead he added, “Did you have a nice day sweetheart?”

“Uh huh! Greta fell on the playground. She landed in a puddle. It was probably the best thing that has ever happened.”

He smiled at her again and ran a hand through her hair, “That is not very nice Elizabeth, but I am glad you enjoyed your day.” He then moved back to his wife and kissed her cheek lightly, “Sounds lovely darling.”

Charles watched and thought back to that word his sister had said _bang…no banging. Maybe, that was like playing not hitting. Momma must be jealous._    

 

 

3

In the Newbit household, Easter was really just another day; another day with candy. Elaine Newbit had always kept her children on a rather strict diet, Charles had once heard her explaining it someone over the phone. She wanted her children to be the best that they could be, which included diet. Regardless, Easter meant that for a few hours the two would be able to eat candy and chocolate without argument. That alone made it one of Charles’ favorite holidays.

Despite the family not being religious in the least, they did decide to go to a church picnic their grandfather Newbit had invited them to. Wayne Newbit senior was sixty, in relatively good health, and always loved to tell stories. Something that Elizabeth seems to have gotten from him. He had invited the family out to Bassey Park.

There were not as many kids there as Charles had been hoping for, and the park itself was too close to that scary Paul Bunyan statue. But he still had fun.

After everyone was fed, Charles having three servings of chocolate cake with the secret promise to eat as much candy as he could, the adults running the event decided it was time for the egg hunt. They promptly sent the kids off to a different section, asking Grandpa Newbit to watch them, and began hiding the brightly colored eggs.

Charles noticed most of the kids went to the field slightly further on but decided to see if his grandfather was willing to give him the piece of apple pie he had brought with him.

Apparently, Elizabeth had a similar idea because she was also turning in that direction. In an attempt to beat her there, the young auburn haired boy started to run and tripped over a tree branch a few feet away.

“Oh boy Chuck!” his grandfather laughed, spit flying out of his mouth with a few pieces of crust from the bit of pie he had just taken. “Shouldn’t be running on a full stomach. Not with the amount of cake you got down.”

Elizabeth, though snickering lightly, walked over to where Charles lay and helped him up. Together they made their way back to where the old man sat.

“Look at you two. You know I was never as nice to my little brother as you are Elizabeth.” He laughed again, thankfully without the dusting of spit. “We were out here a few time too, in our youth. Even for Easter a couple of times.” He coughed, then put another large forkful into his open mouth – Charles sighed in defeat he wasn’t getting any of that pie now.

“You looked for Easter-eggs here? With Uncle Christopher?” Elizabeth had settled on the dry grown near his feet. She grabbed hold of Charles’ loose shirt and pulled him down too.

Their Uncle Christopher, an older man in his late 50s, was actually their father’s uncle. He was currently working at some lumber mill up north. He came around for the holidays. Charles always looked forward to the presents his Great-Uncle Chris would give, he always managed to find the most unusual and entertaining presents. Sometimes they were kind of scary too. Last Christmas, he had given Charles a stuffed chipmunk. It was so creepy, Charles covered it with a blanket and buried it in the back of the hallway closet. The birthday before that, he had been given a BB gun. Of course, his mother had promptly taken it away saying he wasn’t old enough yet.

“Yeah. Well not here exactly, down the way, at the ruined ironworks. Christopher, Caroline, and I were there during that big explosion.” He finished the last bite of apple pie then, placing the plate on the ground next to the children.

Charles vaguely remembered hearing about their Great-Aunt Caroline. She had been older than their grandfather, and she had left when their grandfather was still a kid. In truth, Charles was far more aware of the empty plate which had held probably the best tasting piece of pie he was never going to be able to taste.   

“Aunt Caroline? You have never told me about her! Or about the ironworks! A kid in my class said that someone had rigged it to blow.” Elizabeth’s love for a story was bubbling to the surface, with unsympathetic abandoned. She bounced up and down against the coarse grass, smiling brightly up at the old man.

Their grandfather reached down and ran a rough hand through his granddaughter’s red-tinted hair, then looked towards Charles. Another laugh filled the air, this time unimpeded, “I don’t know about ‘rigged,’ but it did explode. Your Great-Aunt Caroline was ten that year. I was eight and Chris was seven. We had been invited to the old ironworks, all the kids had that year.”

 

 

4

It was mid-April, the overcast sky allowing just the hint of sun to break through, and hundreds of children were searching for elusive chocolate eggs that had been hidden throughout the giant compound. The Kitchener Ironworks was decorated with purples and greens, balloons that seemed out of place contrasted with the concert walls and metal objects. Employees stood in hard hats and bright vest, blocking off dangerous areas and trying to keep the children’s attention firmly placed on the five hundred chocolate eggs hidden throughout the property.

Wayne Newbit senior, then just know as Wayne – or by Waynie if you spoke to his older sister, was chasing after his younger brother Chris who had just stolen a chocolate egg that the elder had his eye on. The two were well away from any off-limits area, not far from where a young Mike Hanlon would face off with the massive bird some fifty years later, and even farther away from where their parents had positioned themselves. The trio’s father worked at the mill, had for the last fifteen years or more, and was one of the lucky few not on duty this afternoon. Most of the employees, as well as volunteers, had come to work on this Sunday in order to help orchestrate this massive undertaking.

Wayne had caught up to his brother just beyond the exterior of the blast furnace if he remembered correctly. It stood tall in the foreground and reminded the eight-year-old of the chimney back at his grandparent’s old house. The odd structure was grey and rust-red in color, partially obscured by the decorations that hung just in the boy’s line-of-sight, was oddly beautiful. Sometimes, after their father would return home from work, grey-brown hair slicked down with sweat and grime, he would tell them stories from the day. Tales about the other guys working the mill, about their stupid dares to grab things without protection or how Henry so-and-so was probably the only man in Derry to not understand the word ‘burning.’ The boys always listened to each and every word their father spoke, as though life would stop the instant they stopped.

Wayne tackled his younger brother to the ground, creating a dirt and grass mixture that painted the younger boy’s white shirt, “I saw it first.” The older boy tore the, now crushed, egg from the other’s hands.

“Aww, come on…I don’t have one yet.”

Wayne stood over his brother, gave an aggravated sigh, and then threw the egg back at him. It struck Christopher in the head, causing the older boy to give a somewhat gruff laugh, “fine.” Without offering a hand to his brother, Wayne took off back towards the main area where the prizes would be given out in an hour or so. He could hear his brother’s pained cry behind him but disregarded it. “Caroline!! How many eggs do you have?” he called out noticing his sister.

Unlike her brothers, she was still spotless, her light blue dress clean and her auburn hair – the shade matched that of the nephew she’d never meet – pulled into a ponytail, “Three.” She bent over enough to show her brother the three colorful eggs she had carefully placed in the wicker basket.

“No fair!! Chris broke mine.”

“Did not! You broke it.” The dirty boy panted, his back bent over and his hands clasped on his knees.

The older girl smiled, not unkindly, and then disregarded them completely. She rushed off to join a group of children closer to her own age. Including the boy known as Robert Dohay, the nine-year-old who would be the last found following the explosion, who currently still had his head attached to his body. The group of five turned into the concert structure, a few employees ushered them in – staying close as to make sure that while in the building they didn’t go anywhere unsafe.

Chris took that opportunity to run past them, sneaking into the off-limits area. Feeling begrudgingly responsible, Wayne chased after him. “Christopher!” he hissed in aggravation. “We can’t be back here.”

Christopher did not change his direction, ducking under the cords that tied off the deep part of the factory, staring at the large pots that were suspended above the ground. His eyes widen, “Wayne! Look! Is that where they melt the metal? Is this the area where dad works?”

Wayne, despite his better judgment, also gasped at the sight. It was impressive to see the furnace, he could feel the heat still radiating off the large pots. “This must-“

“Boys!”

The two children spun around in fear, there stood their father. He was clearly unpleased. Though he said nothing, they understood the command, ‘get out here now, or I’ll beat you with the switch so hard you’ll not sit for a week.’

Hearing the message loud and clear, the two boys shuffled towards him with their heads down and quickly exited the building. Behind them their father apologized to one of his coworkers, claiming that his boys would be properly punished once they got home.

“This is your fault.” Wayne smacked Christopher across his back, “you bonehead! I told you.”

Christopher was about to hit his brother back when their father grabbed ahold of the young boy's arm. “Christopher Newbit! You do not hit!” the boy gulped. The older man then grasped the scruff of his elder son and forced them back to the outskirts of the plant, to where his wife stood. When they reached their mother, he forced them to sit on the bench. “Sit.”

Moments later the ground shook and a cloud of flame filled the air behind their dad. It was blindingly bright and extraordinarily loud. A split second decision had their father covering his sons with his body. Trying to shield them from the falling pieces of concert and metal. They could hear their mother scream in pain, glancing back Wayne could see she had been struck by something – her arm bleeding. A secondary explosion brought another wave of smoke and fire out from the belly of the Ironworks.

Screams of pain, fear, confusion, and chaos echoed above the crackling of flames and screeching of metal. When no third explosion happened their father released his hold, attention falling onto his wife who now cradled her right arm, stemming the blood. He removed the button-down shirt he was wearing, using the grey shirt to staunch the bleeding. Wayne could see his father’s eyes wide with panic and his mother’s laced with pain.

“I need to go find Caroline.” He heard his father mutter, “Honey. Hold this.” He grabbed his wife’s hands, shaking as he did so, and made her hold the shirt. “I need to find Caroline.” He repeated.

Wayne was vaguely aware of Christopher bawling besides him, but his attention was on the Ironworks. Scraps of metal, hot and red, littered the ground where he and his brother had been. He watched his father run, in a frantic unhinged way, to the building – or what remains of it – that the boys had been removed from.

Wayne noticed then that some of the red that splotched across the once green grass, was in fact blood. His stomach revolting against the recognition. Pieces. There were pieces of people on the ground. Perhaps, the crying was not just that of his brother.

A hand grabbed his, his mother was trying to move the two boys farther away from the carnage. Struggling to do so with just the one arm, the other covered in the now maroon colored shirt.

The last thing Wayne saw before his mother managed to pull him away, was his father entering the collapsed building and other workers pulling out the fresh remains of children.

 

 

5

“The police and medical personnel arrived about the time mother had gotten Chris and I back to the edges of the works. Our father was still working with the surveying employees trying to clear out the buildings.” Their grandfather paused for a moment.

Charles looked towards his sister in that moment, her eyes round with intrigue but her body completely still. She was transfixed by the story.

The old man then continued, “Mother had refused to leave until Caroline was found of course, and since our father was helping with the rescue efforts we ended up staying at the edge of the old works for a long while. Sometime after sundown, Chris had fallen asleep on my leg. Since mother was still pacing – she had refused to go to the hospital you see – I let him stay where he was. It must have been after eight before our father returned. His hands were blackened with soot, parts of his clothes spattered with blood, but he wasn’t with Caroline. I think mother had lost it then.” He looked up, and Charles thought for a second he was going to stop telling the story. “Caroline was, well, she was one of the few that was never found you see. That boy, Robert, that she was palling around with was the last found about a week later.”

“Never found?” it was Charles’ turn to question. “Does that mean she blew up to bits?” he asked without remorse.

Elizabeth elbowed him in the ribs, “Charles! That is rude.” Her eyes betrayed her anger, Charles could see she was just as interesting as he was.

Wayne Newbit senior gave a dark chuckle, “I suppose she was. I think eight, maybe nine, people were never found. The ironworks closed down of course. It was a rough few years.” He looked thoughtful, “It was a long time ago now. Your dad ever take you to the old ironworks?”

“No. Momma says it’s dangerous.”

“We have driven past it a few times though,” Elizabeth added.

“My dad took yours up there once. Wayne must have been, I don’t know, fifteen at the time. Father was older than I am then, whatever he’d said, it had your dad scared shitless.” He ignored the children’s gasp at the curse word. “I tried asking him once, but he kept his lips sealed. The Old man took it to his grave too.”

The sudden announcement startled the children. Charles felt himself jump high enough that his butt hurt when he landed back on the ground. One of the adults that had gone off to organize the egg hunt returned with a megaphone to announce the start.

Elizabeth, seemingly unaffected by the story, jumped to her feet and dashed off towards the hunting ground.

Charles was a bit slower, his mind wandering back to Aunt Caroline. Had she blown up? Or maybe something took her. Something like the troll that lived under the bridge in that story about the goats. The thought sends a shiver through his body.

“Hurry up there Chuck. Don’t want to miss out on those chocolate eggs.” He kicked his grandson’s leg gently. After Charles was up on his feet and preparing to follow after his sister, Wayne added, “Hopefully you don’t see any ghosts.” And laughed.

 

 

6

Charles didn’t see any ghosts, but he did see the outline of the old ironworks down the way a bit. Some structures still stood, tall and haunting, while other must have been hidden behind the trees. Charles had a couple eggs already when his curious mind started to think back to his aunt once more. He looked around. His sister was a few yards away, laughing at something, a redheaded boy with thick glasses was next to her. A third figure was there also, a clean-cut boy with brown hair. Charles took this as a sign his sister was not paying him any attention, and slowly crept towards the remains of the ironworks.

There were children and adults, still hunting for eggs, at the edge of the high school when the young Newbit passed it. The adults spared a glance or two, before returning to their own children and Charles continued on without obstruction. Passing beyond the high school, Charles watched as the remaining tower grew in size. He was still a few hundred feet from the grounds, but the excitement of what he might see started to fill him up.

His childhood imagination began creating scenarios. Fantastic ones, where he might find his long-lost aunt – now older than his grandfather – sitting near a collapsed building waiting for her father to return from the grave and bring her home. Or maybe she wouldn’t be his granddad’s age at all, maybe she would still be ten and the explosion had someone trapped her at that age forever. She could come live with them and share a room with his sister.

Still lost in his creations, Charles halted just in sight of the fenced area leading to the ruins. It almost looked magical, like an old castle taken down by some invading body.

_Why am I here?_ Charles thought quietly, _I am going to get in trouble._ A breeze ran through the ruins ahead of him, blasting passed him a second later. The cold edge of the air seemed to carry with it a scream, piercing yet dull. It sounded like a cat, or maybe a bird. Aspirin, his family’s orange tabby cat, sometimes made that sound when watching birds from their front window. Charles felt his body move forward. The sound came again with another blast of wind, more clear this time.

“That has to be a kitty.” He tried to find the cat and noticed that the fence in front of him was battered and rusted, mostly collapsed the farther down the road you went. So he continued on, looked low on the ground to find the cat. “Here kitty.” He called out, his mind already thinking of names for his new friend. Along the ground, he started to see pieces of the old ironworks, probably things that his grandfather had seen when it had exploded, sheets of half-buried metal.

Charles stopped. His eyes caught onto what looked like an arm, a child’s arm. It was burned, scorched at the bone which poked out near the unattached elbow, globs of red goo stuck to the sides of the tattered remains and two fingers nonexistent. Charles blinked, unsure of what to do. A part of him wondered how no one had noticed the arm before, his grandfather was after all rather old so people must have walked by it many times before now.

Charles walked towards the appendage, he tripped stumbling forward and falling onto his stomach. He landed inches away from the arm, he was close enough he could smell burnt flesh and fat. A pounding filled his ears, his heart was beating deafeningly loud. From this vantage point, he could see how the cloth that once covered the arm had melted into the flesh beneath it. Now charred black and nearly unrecognizable. Without thinking, Charles reached for the hand. He stretched closer to it, wanting to feel it.

A branch snapped to his left, causing the boy to flinch – his hand brushing across the rough burnt meat momentarily – his eyes anxious, desperate to find the source of the sound. There, perhaps fifteen feet from him, was another body. The body seems to have fallen up against the large oak tree, partially wrapped around it bent awkwardly. One arm curled up to the trunk, the other practically detached and tucked under the body. The left leg, broken and twisted backward, rested next to the torso. While the other hooked at a right angle out of sight. The head was missing. In its place a white mass of bone and tendons.

Charles sat, frozen, his skin crawling almost painfully into uncomfortable bumps. He rolled onto his bottom, still only a few inches from the arm, and began to scoot back. His eyes never leaving the burnt contorted body at the tree, now stuck staring at the skin near where the head had once been. It was scraped down, like an eraser after being used, the edges brown and red. Beneath, bone cracked and fragmented. It looked like parts of the exposed bone had been pushed farther into the body. Charles was scared that if he looked away the body would move and come after him. Probably even try to take his head to replace the one it had lost.

Then, he bumped into something. A shrilled scream like gasp spilled from his mouth as Charles again twisted around. The heat radiated off this figure, tattered burnt blue fabric stuck to his back from where he’d bumped it – stretching as he tried to free himself. Without thought, his hands came up to try and pry it off, suddenly aware that skin also stretched with it. He scurried away, never fully leaving the ground.

“Don’t be so rude to your Aunt Caroline, Charles.” The voice was harsh and painful sounding.

Charles felt his eyes widen and fill with tears. The figure, missing an arm and half of her head, took a stuttered step towards him. Something internal broke, and he was on his feet, heart bursting through his chest, running. Running anywhere. He could hear his aunt – if it really was his aunt – say something else, but his own tears and breathing drowned out whatever it was.

Twice he fell, scraping his hands and ripping a hole in his pants, before making it back to the park and collapsing in sobs. Within seconds he was grabbed by one of the older women from the church group, and he screeched again. So sure, so dead sure, that it wasn’t a living person but instead the body of his ten-year-old aunt. Any second now the hands, free of flesh and muscle, would tighten on his throat and he would feel the residual fat burn against his skin.

He was passed then, to another person’s arms, and suddenly he felt safe. Instantly recognizing the smell of his father’s cologne, Charles gripped the fabric of his dad’s jacket unwilling to move from that position. Stricken with utter certainty, that if he looked back, Aunt Caroline would be there; smiling.

 

 

7

Charles told his father everything that happened later that night once he had calmed down. His father managed to look legitimately concerned and did his best to comfort his clearly terrified son. After more tears, ice cream, and nearly five hours of simply refusing to be left alone, Charles was allowed to sleep in his parent’s room. Curled up in the middle of the large bed, with his stuffed monkey and orange tabby Aspirin for comfort.

While on the cusp of unconsciousness, he heard his father yelling on the phone. “Why the hell would you tell my SIX-year-old son, that fucking story!?” there was silence for a second, “I don’t care if they asked or not. Dad, he is traumatized. Think before you fuck-up my children the way your father did yours!” A bang ended the conversation, causing Charles’ eyes to fleetingly flutter before again falling close.

 

 

8

            The next morning, Charles awoke to an empty bed. “Momma!”

            “We are right here Charles,” she stepped out of the master bathroom, dressed in an off-white dress robe and holding a toothbrush. “It is time to get up though. Why don’t you go back to your own room and put on the clothes I laid out for you.”

            As she walked back into the bathroom, Charles subconsciously leaned forward following her every move with his eyes. He noticed his father shaving in the mirror, and when their eyes met he smiled.

            “Go on Chuck. You got school today.” The shaving cream creased with each syllable, somehow making him look older.

            Charles crawled to the side of the bed, as he was about to step onto the floor fear spiked within him, “What if something grabs my foot!? What if it pulls me under? What is Aunt Caro-“ He felt as though his eyes would pop out of their sockets they were so wide with terror. He could see what he was saying coming to life, he could practically feel burnt flesh grab his ankles.

            “Charles!”

            Strong hands gripped his shoulders and Charles could feel the blood be leached off of his face, too afraid to see what had grabbed him.

            “Charles,” the hands shook him once, “Nothing is under the bed.”

            The young boy looked up finally, recognizing the voice of his father. He was going to protest, but the words were caught in his throat and tears build in his eyes again.

            “Chuck,” a softness entered his father’s voice this time, carrying a fondness that would stick with Charles; a comfortable love. “Go get dressed. Nothing will hurt you.” His dad picked him up gently and placed him at the door to the bedroom. He popped him lightly on the butt to get him moving, and then returned to the bathroom – his face still half covered in shaving suds.

            Charles’ room was exactly two feet from his parents, literally just to the left of theirs upon exiting, but it felt so much farther. From where he stood, he could see into the bathroom he shared with his sister through his open door. He glanced back towards his parent’s bathroom, and then under their bed where he swore he could see a glint of teeth. That was enough to send him scampering into his own room.

            His bed was made, lighthouse sheets peeking out from behind the navy quilt, and the clothes his mother had laid out sitting near the foot. The bathroom door to his right shut, causing his heart to pound and then slowly fade again as he heard the run of water. Elizabeth had closed the door. Without shutting his own bedroom door, Charles began to change his clothes as instructed.

            When he had finished, he sat in the middle of his bed – careful to avoid the sides in case a hand reached out to grab him – and waited in silence for one of his parents to come and get him.

            The water in the bathroom turned off, and the door leading to his bedroom again opened. Elizabeth poked her head out, she smiled when she saw him and walked over to join him on the bed.

            _You’re going to get grabbed! Move your feet, move your feet!_

            “Hey,” she sat with a soft thud and begun to swing her feet over the edge. “How did you sleep?”

            His eyes still wide and staring at the fishing lures she was so content on casting, “fine.” He squeaked.

            “You know. Whatever you think you saw wasn’t real, right? It was just make-believe.”

            He managed to tear his eyes off of her feet to look at her face. Oh, how he loved his sister. “It was real.”

            She placed an arm on his shoulder, drawing him too close to the side of the bed but he relented, “It is only real because you think it is. If you think it was pretend, then it will be all pretend.” She rocked him a little, “That story that Grandpa told, happened a really long time ago. Before dad was even born. There is nothing at that place, but pieces of busted metal. Okay?”

            Somewhere deep inside, Charles wanted to believe her; wanted to think that he could simply wish everything away. But he knew it wasn’t really that easy. Some monsters weren't fake after all. Regardless, he swallowed and responded with a small nod.

            “Besides, we can leave the bathroom door open for a few night. Okay? Then if anything did come in here, I’d know about it and help.” She smiled again, tightened her grip, and then hopped off the bed. “Come on. I heard dad mention pancakes.” She reached her hand out, silently waiting for him to take it.

            Sending one more glance to her feet, still half expecting to see a withered hand about to grab it, he accepted the hand she offered, and together they made their way down the stairs to the kitchen.  

 

 

9

Charles did feel better as the day progressed, almost forgetting what had occurred the just twenty-four hours before once he was at school playing with his friends. However, there was still a persistent voice in his head telling him he needed to be careful. A voice that was so strong and unlike his own that it felt too foreign to be coming from his own head. Had he been just a little bit older, he might have listened to it a bit more closely. Despite that voice, Charles forced himself to push aside his unease and play with his friends as if yesterday had never happened.

Even with the sun shining brightly for an April day, the children were playing in the gym rather than outside because of the cold breeze. Charles was fine with this. While the playground was fun, the toys that you could play with inside were always better. His teacher, an older woman with white and grey streaked hair and glasses that always stayed on the very tip of her nose like magic, informed the children that they had only ten more minutes before they’d be returning to the classroom.

Charles was currently in the middle of a game of baseball, well more like softball, anyway he had stuck out – which was common when the average age of the batter was only six and a half – but the teacher always let everyone bat twice. He had seven more people who were going to go before him, and so he asked if he could use the bathroom.

It wasn’t something the six-year-old normally did at school. The bathrooms in the building were old and felt nothing like the one he shared with his sister, but this morning he had chosen not to use it; since it would have meant being alone. So Charles sprinted off towards the boy’s locker room just outside the double gym doors, completely ignoring the teacher’s call for him to slow down and the girl – Jennifer – that he all but plowed over in his rush. The double doors banged behind him, heavy steel, as he skidded to a stop and retched open the bathroom. He hadn’t noticed just how badly he needed to go. He could feel himself practically pee his pants. With absolutely no grace or dignity – not that six-year-olds often had either – he pulled off his pants and trotted to the urinal. Relief was immediate.

After what felt like ages, Charles shook off just like his dad had taught him a few years ago and he reached down to pull up his pants. He had just managed to latch the buckle of his trousers when he smelt it. It was the unforgettable scent of burning hair and oil. He stopped breathing, his hands still at his waist, and listened. He could hear crackling like a fire that was burning out and the sound of something tearing. His eyes still stared at the unflushed urinal, very aware of his shadow. He couldn’t move.

_It’s all in your head. Just like Elizabeth said, it is all in your head._

Then there was a dry chuckle from somewhere behind him, in one of the stalls perhaps, it sounded rehearsed the way the people on television sometimes sound when something isn’t really that funny. The laughter increased in volume, sending spider web like chills up Charles' spine and into his hair.

“Don’t you want a balloon, Chuck.”

Charles felt everything stop. That wasn’t the same voice that had been laughing, no that was the voice of his corpse aunt who tried to get him yesterday. A switch flipped, and he bolted. Charles flung himself into the bathroom door, catching a glimpse of his aunt in the corner of his eye still dressed in blue with orange latches, and falling to the ground as the door gave way. The laughter picked up again, it almost sounded like someone dying unable to catch their breath, and Charles got to his feet as fast as he could running back into the crowded gym.

 

 

10

He told his teacher what he had seen, at first she thought he was telling a tall tale and tried to brush him aside admonishing Charles for trying to scare the other students. Then another student – Margaret Grant – spoke up, “What if it’s a _pervert_! My daddy always says I need to be careful of perverts!”

Charles had no idea what a ‘pervert’ was and given his level of fear he didn’t care what it might be just as long as the teacher listened to him. The woman gave a sigh, half exasperated half worried, she walked over to another teacher – he was a younger guy, probably in his late thirties – and they had a hushed conversation. Charles watched as Mr. Grayson left suddenly towards the double doors he had just busted through.

When he returned, he looked towards Charles’ teacher and shook his head. She nodded in response and returned again to the young boy. She smiled, not unkindly, “Come along Charles.” She took Charles gently by the hand and led him to the principal’s office, after asking Mr. Grayson to briefly watch her class as they made their way back to the classroom.

When they reached the principal’s office door, she knocked twice and then opened it pulling Charles along too. “Richard. The young Mr. Newbit here says he saw someone inside the boy’s restroom down by the gym. Given everything that’s been going on lately,” She trailed off, Charles watched as an odd emotion crossed her face

“Charles dear,” his teacher had released his hand and knelt beside him. Pushing him lightly towards the older man, “Tell Mr. Nelson about the woman that was in the bathroom.”

Charles started shaking in fear again and he didn’t know what to say anything, every person he had told – his teacher included – seemed to either disregard it or assume he was making it up. It hadn’t been some ‘pervert’ or whatever she thought it might be. No, it had been his Aunt Caroline. Or maybe, some monster that was pretending to be his aunt. As far as Charles could tell that thing, might even have been whatever made Georgie leave. So he remained silent.

The old woman sighed softly and stood up. She began to retell the principal exactly what Charles had told her, and that Mr. Grayson had checked and found no one. Despite the confusion, the principal did call the police, and Charles was forced to wait outside of his office for them – and his parents, both of whom had also been informed – to arrive.

 

 

11

Over the next few days, Charles found himself dreaming of his aunt Caroline. Or if he believed his father, an imaginary version of her. She would always find him no matter where he hid, and she’d grab onto him with her burnt hands. Pieces of flesh would stick to his own and globs of melted meat would spill onto his clothes.

Charles could tell he was grinding his parents’ patience and that they were getting angry with him, though he didn’t understand why they thought he made it up. There was no reason to lie about something as horrible as what had happened. He was telling the truth. His father had been so furious when he arrived at the school that day. So angry in fact that his face was bright red, and Charles thought he might actually catch on fire; if that were possible.

One Friday morning, after Charles had woken up naturally and not from a nightmare – he’d been screaming in his sleep the last few days according to Elizabeth – he decided the whole event, both events, must have been made up. They had to be a part of his imagination. He must have just been too interested in his grandfather’s story and created everything in his mind. Like the dragon, he used to think lived in their attic, or the doll his sister owned that he thought would kill her and eat her eyes one night when he least expected it. On both of those occasions, he’d been proven wrong. So why should this time be any different? It would be easier if he was wrong.

Even Elizabeth thought he must have made it up or that he was just being a baby, though she was less forward with telling him. His dad had gotten to the point where Charles would simply open his mouth and he would be reprimanded. Charles knew Elizabeth would never lie to him, and he was glad that she still listened to his stories even though she thought they were bogus.

After all, the year their dad forgot that it was Christmas – he had been off with one of his graduate students, apparently this student was from the west coast and couldn’t go home for the holiday; maybe ‘forgetting’ was actually not the problem – while their mother lied to Charles, telling him that ‘daddy had to go help Santa Charles. That means you’ll get extra stuff this year.’ An empty bottle of wine by her side and a half-empty one of vodka. His sister had been honest.

“Dad forgot about us.” At his tears, she shrugged softly and gave a sad smile, “don’t worry though, I never will. And he’ll be back. He always does.”

Of course, she had been right. Their father returned, with a new doll for Elizabeth and the cute orange kitty now known as Aspirin.

So, Charles decided it was in his head. No matter how much he could feel his hair stand on end, or how real she had been that day in the bathroom. Nothing was out to get him.

His father was at a conference that weekend, his mother was already through her third full glass of wine and lounging on the sofa in the living room – Aspirin enjoying the constant cuddles that her drunken state offered.

Charles had been playing with some Legos beneath the dining room table. He enjoyed being under the table, it felt like a cave or a little dungeon. He was a part of the house, he could see his mother off to the side, but he was also separate from it. It was his own space.

The house he was working on was nearly complete, it just needed another couple layers on the far wall and then he could start deciding how many rooms he was going to build. He reached over behind him, feeling around for the pile of blocks he spilled there a few hours ago. When nothing hit his hand, Charles turned around to look. He spotted the last block, a red one, and grabbed it. Hastily, he shoved it into the open spot on the back wall. Then he stood, planning to go grab the remaining blocks out of his room.

The house was quiet, wind beat against the siding and the light patter of rain whipped with it. Charles slowly climbed the stairs. Careful not to miss a step, something he did commonly, and eventually reached the second floor.

His parent’s door stood open, light pouring out and littering the ground in front of him. At the edge, just where the light dissipated enough to make you squint, lay a shoe. It was a black dress shoe by the look of it, and Charles recognized it as one Elizabeth wore often. He walked towards it and decided he might as well bring it back to her.

It was cold to the touch, shiny, it reflected the bedroom light that still lite up the corridor. With shoe in hand, Charles continued on to his sister’s dark room. The door was open, but the light in the bathroom was on. “Beth! I got your shoe.” He stood for a moment at the threshold to the bedroom, but the sound of rushing water told him that she must not have heard his call.

Flicking the light to her room on, he entered and closed the door in his wake. The only thing that Elizabeth had ever really gotten angry at was when Charles came into her room when she was using the bathroom and then leaving the door open. She claimed it was too cold if he did that and that a young lady needed her privacy. Charles didn’t really care about either of those, but she yelled the last time he hadn’t closed the door so this time he made sure to shut it tight.

Her room always seemed to be changing, today her school books sat on the bed along with the pink fluffy jacket she had been wearing on Easter. Charles moved farther into the room and rapped loudly on the bathroom door. The water shut off, and Charles expected the door to open. However, instead, he heard laughter from within the bathroom and the other door, the one leading to his room open.

With annoyance he forced the bathroom door open, the light was still on, water dripped softly from the tap, and the other door still open. For a second, Charles felt like he should run. Run back down to his drunk mother, or maybe next door to his neighbor. Then, just as quickly as it came it passed, it was just his sister. “Beth, I have your shoe.” He called again, walking through the small room.

His bedroom was dark and his own door shut, “Elizabeth, come out. Why are you hiding?” He stood there, at the entrance to his room, trying to hear her. Then he felt someone grab the shoe from his hand.

He turned, “Sissy wha-“

It was not Elizabeth. The boy of six could not even manage a scream, one of the burn hands of his aunt clasped against the shoe and the other grabbed his neck. Fleetingly, Charles remembered that this was imaginary; that it was fake; that he made it all up. But that faded as he lost himself in it’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it!! I am a NaNo 'winning' <3 Thanks to anyone who reads this! And special thanks to comments, they mean so much. Now that November is over, I plan on posting consistently. I have only a chapter and change left to write so all is well. <3


	4. Wilson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings apply - enjoy <3

1

            _Thump, thump, thump, thump._

The pounding rhythm was a stable in the bedroom of Wilson Hatfield. The thirteen-year-old boy was slouched over on the bottom bunk, the mattress was uncovered and unused, his long boney legs bent underneath him and his hands gripping the edges of a hardbound book. Wavy black bangs rested on black-framed glasses, and his rich brown eyes flicking quickly across the page. Occasionally his tongue ran over his dry lips, or his teeth would grip the flesh of his lips and cause his freckles to be pulled into new shapes then snap back a second later. The book, _Return of the King_ , in near perfect condition, it had been a gift from his father for his birthday. He had been ecstatic when the wrapped box his father handed him, just a few weeks ago, contained the final in the _Lord of the Rings_ series. If it weren’t for school and food, Wilson probably would have read the entire thing in one sitting.

            _Thump, thump, thump, thump._

The sound was that of his overly excited and extremely loyal dog. Neville, a two-year-old Golden-Rottweiler mix, was taking up the majority of the twin sized bed on which Wilson sat. His head rested heavily on Wilson’s crossed legs, under the open book which hovered inches above his head, and his tail thumped repetitively against the chest next to the bed. A chest which, for the moment anyway, sat open revealing dozens of science fiction novels and a few well maintained comic books. Neville’s fur was thick, colored like a Rottweiler, and traces of him could be found all over the single-story house. The large puppy was more than happy to sit with his master while he read, wanting nothing more than to cuddle.

Every so many pages, Wilson would turn the page and before returning his hand to the book he would drag his short nails across his buddies back and head. Wilson had found Neville when the dog was only a few weeks old. He had been alone and whimpering pathetically from the cold. Wilson was riding his bike back home after spending some of his Christmas money when he heard the pitiful sound. The snow hadn’t piled quite as much that year, and when Wilson stopped his bike at the entrance to Memorial Park it was easy to see the small black fur ball. His reaction was instantaneous. Unceremoniously dropping his bike, and nearly tripping as his shoelace caught on his handlebars, Wilson was crouching down next to the furry creature before the pup even knew what was going on. Their connection was immediate.

Despite his age at the time, Wilson was already a pretty well read kid. His father, even with his wife’s constant complaints, had fed his son’s habits with vigor. As a gift Wilson had received _I am Legend_ a few days prior, and the moment Wilson picked up the puppy he knew. “You’re Neville!” He remembers screaming once the trembling fuzzy pup was in his arms. He brought the puppy to his chest, and carefully, he put the young dog under his jacket and zipped it tightly. The entire ride back to his house was far slower and more cautious than his normal; he had one hand holding Neville through his shirt.

During one of these pauses, while Wilson ran his hand across his best friend, Neville licked the edge of Wilson’s ankle. The boy chuckled softly, “boy, you want to go outside huh?” He reached behind, grabbing the bookmark he had set out of Neville’s reach a few hours ago, and with care placed it in the book. Then scooted forward, upsetting the balance that was Neville’s head, and put the book containing the final adventures of Frodo and the fate of the ring – Wilson was worried about whether or not the young hobbit was up to the task – into the chest. He grabbed the blanket he had been sitting on and covered the books before shutting the chest. The blanket provided a small amount of cover if his mom opened the chest for any reason. While his father loved his son’s infatuation with fantasy and science fiction, he had in fact been sneaking the boy books for years. His mother believed those stories were damaging to a young child’s mind. She tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the books from him. She had even managed to get ahold of some of them. Of course, her husband would buy Wilson new copies – “keep these out of sight. Okay. Your mother thinks they are in the closet in our room. If you get caught, I had nothing to do with it.”

Wilson stood and stretched his hands high above his head, brushing the upper bunk. The bed above him was covered in an orange-brown comforter, cleanly made, and a stuffed bear sat on the pillow at the head. Next, to the bed, a dresser sat on the floor, the top of which was covered with baby clothes and blankets.

Cracking his neck to the left, Wilson gave the dog another pat, and then went towards the door and pulled it open. A blast of warmth hit his face, the furnace didn’t heat the small bedroom very well something that his mother was desperate to have fixed before his baby sister was born. “Come on Neville.”

The dog’s ears shot up, still standing on the bed, and stretched out following his master. Then, with a carefully placed leap, trotted out the door leading the way. The door opened into the kitchen, currently empty though there was a large pot on the stove, and gave way to the living room. His mother was currently doing laundry, at least that was what Wilson surmised given the garage door standing open, and his father was out running errands. The duo walked to the door, the shorter sitting loyally waiting for a leash to be tied to his collar and for his owner to put a jacket on his own scrawny shoulders.

“Ma! I’m taking Neville out for a walk!” He called out to his mother.

“Stay close to the house.” The voice echoes out from the garage. “And don’t go near Witcham, ya hear!”

“Yeah, Ma.”

He opened the door and let Neville take the lead again. It was cold outside, not uncomfortably so. May was just beginning and the showers had yet to really start up yet. The sky was clear and the sun was still relatively high. Wilson glanced down the street towards Witcham, he’d listen to his mother and not go that way but it was hard. So much had changed in the last six months. Bill Denbrough’s kid brother killed literally feet from where Wilson had walked Neville daily; Lawrence Fabayn bled to death after being attacked on the bridge leaving his sister a shell; the Ripsom girl found just after Christmas.

While he knew Ripsom in passing and while he had spoken to Bill on a few occasions, it was Lawrence’s death that had shaken him. The Fabayn twins had been friends of his since they were barely walking. On the day Lawrence and Minnie had been attacked, Wilson was playing at the park with Neville. He had been one of the dozen or so who heard Minnie’s sheiks. He had even accompanied her to the hospital and regrets letting the nurses shepherd him out before Mr. Fabayn had gotten there – leaving her alone when she was informed that her brother was gone.

Since that January day, Wilson had wanted to be a good friend; he wanted to say something or do something. He had tried, kind of, he had brought Neville over to the house when he knew their – her – father was gone, and that had worked a little. Neville had always loved the twins – despite Lawrence’s fear of dogs – and he knew something was wrong. Neville had walked up to Minnie the moment she opened the door, sat at her feet, and just stared at her. She had smiled a bit, but Wilson thought it was a sad smile; empty.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She offered petting the dog kindly.

“I wasn’t going to ask you.” He was, but Wilson thought that was a better answer.

Since then, he tried to walk to school with her every morning and home every afternoon. Lawrence would have wanted that, and Wilson believed it was the least he good do in memory of his late friend. Plus, Wilson had always liked Minnie. Not the Miles Bennell – Becky Driscoll kind of infatuation seen in _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ , no, it was more like Samwise’s adoration for Frodo Baggins.

Shaking his head, Wilson continued towards Kansas Street. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, most people seemed to be hidden away. Which was not uncommon. At least not recently. The clouds that had set over Derry back in October may have lifted, but whatever was awoken by them has yet to leave. The walk was relatively short, Neville did his business early on and Wilson picked up after him as he was taught – it was one of the things he had to take responsibility for if he was to keep Neville that year he brought him home.  Then the two started back home. Since Lawrence had been killed, his mother had been a bit intense. She wanted to know where Wilson was at every second, she even called the school a few times back in February, before his father had calmed her down.

Wilson understood, he really did. Since October, There had been three murders – four depending on who you talked to, some included Cheryl Lamonica while others said that she was killed by a boyfriend. Wilson didn’t really care, it could be one or fifty it was horrible and he felt a bit lost. These things happened in the books he read and the movies he watched, but not in real life. In real life, children were loved by their families and lived happy healthy lives. They were not murdered by some unknown person leering from the corners and stalking from the bushes. Wilson was an idealist, naïve, and kind.

Neville pulled left, and Wilson let his dog lead him back to another patch of grass while he stared back down the street towards Witcham. He saw a glint from one of the houses, eventually revealing a boy and a bike. From the distance, Wilson wasn’t sure who the kid was, but there were only so many that lived in this part of Derry. He watched for another moment, glancing towards Neville to make sure there wasn’t more poop to pick up – the old woman that owned the grass his dog was now rolling in was a bitch. She had thrown water on Neville last time he had trotted over without his boy and used the facilities and then tossed water on Wilson himself when he had gone to retrieve the canine.

He turned back and realized that the boy and the bike, technically the boy riding the bike, was approaching. He recognized the figure now, only one kid had a bike so big that in order to get it going they needed to sway nearly horizontal back and forth, Bill Denbrough was still a block away or so.

Wilson watched, he always felt like Bill was running from something; some unknown creature that only he could feel and see.

“Hi-yo Silver, AWAY!” the younger boy screamed as he passed Wilson, picking up speed now.

The thirteen-year-old followed the gravity-defying boy with his eyes until the figure disappeared down another road. He wondered if Bill was going somewhere alone, and why his parents were letting him go by himself. Wilson’s own mother, if she had her way, would put him on a leash just like his dog. Yet, Bill Denbrough was off somewhere seemingly alone and unwatched, even after his brother had been killed.

Moments like this reminded Wilson that he was, in fact, naïve, in many ways. The moment was short-lived, however, because Neville had picked this exact moment of contemplation to jump on his owner. Both front paw pushing, somewhat painfully, into the scrawny kid’s lower back and causing him to stumble forward a few shaky steps.

After regaining his balance, Wilson whipped around with the intent to scold the dog, but if course Neville was begging. Big eyes, tongue out, smile wide, essentially saying, ‘what? I did nothing. You were the one not paying attention to me,’ and then he barked once and began home.

Wilson shook his head, “you. You have no shame.”

The pair managed to get back to the house, despite Neville trying to pull him over a few times, and Wilson made sure to clean off his pups feet before they entered; another one of those rules.

“We’re back Ma!” Wilson called as he worked off his shoes without using his hands. Once he turned back around, he spotted his mother stirring whatever was for dinner.

“Good. I was getting worried.” She smiled at him. His mother worked at the local library, although she was currently taking some time off until Wilson’s sister arrived. Catherine Hatfield was seven months pregnant with the couple’s second child. Even though Wilson’s sister was going to be just over thirteen-years younger than him, he was ecstatic about becoming a big brother. He wasn’t even upset about sharing his room. In fact, he looked forward to it. Granted his dad said it was only going to be for a short while; a few years max. They had plans about converting the garage into another bedroom for him or moving. However, that one seemed less likely to Wilson. They were rooted in Derry, the Hatfield family had lived in Derry Maine for four generations.

“We were only gone for a few minutes.” The boy unleashed his dog, who bounded over to the large dog bed which lay a few feet away from the couch. “And I had Neville with me. He’d bite anyone who tried to hurt me.”

His mother scoffed and shook her head, “Regardless, you keep minding me as you have been and I’ll try to worry less aright.” As he approached, she pulled him into a tight hug and planted a kiss on his hairline. “I can’t believe you are a teenager already.”

He chuckled, “Do you need help Ma? I can stir if you’d like to sit down for a while.”

“My knight in thick glasses,” She patted his arm and handed the spoon to him.

“Ha ha…” Wilson gave her a sarcastic eye roll. “I got my eyesight from you, you know?” he added with fake bitterness.

She ran a hand through his hair and then went to sit at the nearby table. “Yes, but I think you got your snark from your father.”

Wilson then let out a full out laugh, splashing a few drops of stew out from the pot.

“Watch what you’re doing or you’ll burn yourself.”

“Yeah, I know Ma.” He turned back to the stove and watched the dark liquid swirl around in circles. “I saw Bill Denbrough,” he added quietly, talking about the other kids was always dangerous with his mother.

Apparently, today was a good day, however. “How was he? I feel bad for the Denbrough’s,” She paused frowning lightly, “and the Fabayn’s of course.” She added.

Wilson stayed silent.

“It is just unnerving, Wilson. I worry about you.”

“I know Ma.” He glanced out the window, half expecting to see Lawrence and Minnie running down the street like they used to. “I know.”

 

 

2

Sometime later, after his father returned and the three of them ate dinner, Wilson asked if he could take some of the soup over to the Fabayn’s house; there was plenty left. While his father agreed instantly, proud that his son considered others. His mother was nervous about having her son walk there by himself; even if there was only a single house in between the two.

In the end, Wilson left their front porch – large pot in hand after all if they were going to bring over a meal, it might as well last for more than one – and his father promised to wait in the chair just outside the door until he returns. Wilson thought it was a bit ridiculous. What could possibly attack him in the two hundred feet that stretched between the houses? Regardless of that, he agreed to the deal and began on his way.

It had yet to warm up, though May was far less wet that April had been, the air was still frosted lightly by this time in the evening. Wilson, despite his mother’s protests, was not wearing a jacket and he could feel slight shivers run through his arms. As he approached the Fabayn house, it became obvious that Mr. Fabayn was still out. Though Wilson had no evidence to defend it, he was pretty certain that since January Mr. Fabayn had been working longer hours than before.

Wilson liked Larry Fabayn, as much as he could like a friend’s father anyway, and he could only imagine how hard it must have been to lose a wife and then a son. Yet, he couldn’t help but question the man’s new schedule. Before everything happened, Larry Fabayn would get home as fast as he could, and now it was almost like coming home was a last resort.

His thoughts ran out of time to fully form as he reached the door of the relatively dark house. After only a few knocks, Minnie answered. Her dark hair hung there, dull and lifeless, as her green eyes looked towards his questioningly.

“Hey Minnie,” Wilson greeted somewhat awkwardly. “We had some extra stew and thought maybe you and your dad would like some.”

She looked at the pot, then back towards him. Suddenly Wilson felt extremely insecure like she was looking into him rather than at him.

“Thank,” Her voice was flat but she did smile as she took the pot from his hands. She stepped back into the house leaving space should Wilson decide to follow, “Neville stayed back I see. It’s rare for you to go anywhere without him except school.”

The teenager considered his options, then leaned back against the banister stretching in an attempt to see his father’s face, “Aye! Dad! I’m going in for a second! I’ll be back in a few!” He shouted. As he turned back he heard his dad yell back some indiscernible reply, “Yeah, Ma wanted to make sure I didn’t drop the pot, and Neville he has been really bad with the jumping lately. Nearly knocked me into the street earlier.”

She was laughing a little after the shout to his father, and it felt like a triumph. It wasn’t just with Minnie, Wilson tried hard to make Bill Denbrough laugh too when he could. He even tried to get a smile out of that Newbit girl, even though she no longer attended school with them.

After the Newbit boy was found dead, his sister was taken out of public school; he heard they might be moving. Wilson would see her on occasion, and when he did he tried to get her to smile. He wanted everyone to smile. It seemed too dark and sad if children, that should be enjoying life, were allowed to disappear; following their siblings. It was Wilson’s personal mission.

“It is good he watches out for you.” Minnie’s assertion brought him back to the present. She was still smiling, even with the words that hid under the surface. “How is your mom doing? I know with everything going on, she must be stressed.” The tall girl moved towards the kitchen, without flipping on the light, and placed the pot on the stove. She stayed facing away from him, and for a second Wilson thought maybe she was staring at the sink which was placed next to the stove. That maybe a spider or bug had crawled, and he was about to step forward and take care of it should she ask. Instead, she swung around, her eyes seemed brighter in the filtered light from the living room. “You’ll have to thank her.”

Wilson was taken aback, “Uh, yeah. I mean I will. And, things are fine. I mean she is fine.” He suddenly felt fidgety. It felt as though something wasn’t right. “Stress is getting to her a bit I suppose, but you know.” He felt another wave of unease and judging by Minnie’s stiff posture she must have felt it too.

“Yeah.” She ran her hand up and down her left arm. Then with swift directness, took a few strides to the couch in the living area. She pulled a sweatshirt off of the back and put it on effortlessly; Wilson recognized it as Lawrence’s. “It must be exciting.” She blinked at him, then her lips rose in a small grin, “Having a baby sister on the way? That must be exciting.”

“Oh,” He ran a hand through his hair, and in doing so bashed his glasses nearly knocking them off his face.

The youngest Fabayn laughed at that, happy and unabashed. In that moment, all of the unease Wilson had been feeling minutes before it disappeared. He exaggerated his actions as he adjusted his glasses. “Why yes! I am excited for a sister.” His face flushed brightly.

“Well, you’ll be a good big brother I think.”

The clock chimed and Wilson saw Minnie jump somewhat startled.

“I better get going. Don’t want them to worry.”

“Right.” Her voice was painted with an emotion somewhere between longing and fear. Before Wilson could even respond, there was a knock on the front door. Since he was closer, he opened it. “Oh, hey dad. I was just about to head back.”

Francis Hatfield ruffled his son’s messy hair, gave a kind smile to Minnie, and spoke, “I hope you and your father enjoy the stew, Minnie. Wilson and I have got to get back, don’t want to worry the Mrs.” The elder’s cheeky smile matched his son’s identically.

“We will, thank you very much.” She walked forward preparing to close the door behind them.

“Bye,” Wilson mumbled, embarrassed that his father had come to collect him as though he was five and not thirteen. “See ya in school tomorrow.”

Wilson glanced back once, and he saw Minnie standing on the porch of her house. The sweatshirt hung off her shoulders, Lawrence had always seemed so much larger than her, and her eyes seemed locked on something across the street. Whatever she was watching, it caused the smile that had graced her face to be replaced with pain and sadness. She spun and disappeared back into the house.

At that time Wilson thought nothing of the event. Minnie had lost her twin brother, she was justified in feeling upset or sad. However, it would not take long for Wilson to understand the reasons behind her fear.  

 

 

3

When the sun rose the next morning, Wilson knew it was going to be a long – likely bad – day. For the first time in nearly six years, he managed to fall off his bed. The fall, which was about four feet, woke him up rather roughly. He had managed to somehow avoid landing on anything, other than the foot of the bed belong which stuck out from beneath his. He had, however, failed to walk away from the flight unharmed. The landing torqued his back, and now the thirteen-year-old was feeling more like a sixty-three-year-old and he was not a fan.

Neville seemed to enjoy the event, after the initial startle. The dog reached more like a cat when the boy fell, but as soon as it was clear Wilson wasn’t seriously hurt it was time to eat and until that was complete Neville care about nothing else.

After the meal had been given, and Neville once again let his owner wallow in the embarrassing realization that he – a teenager – fell out of his bed. Begrudgingly, Wilson continued to get ready for the day. This included raiding his parent’s medicine closet and downing a few aspirin. Sluggishly he grabbed the lunch his mother packed him, took Neville out for a quick potty break, and maneuvered his bike out of the empty garage. His father left for work sometime between Wilson’s flight and breakfast, while his mother left early to visit her sister in Portland.

Despite the twinge of pain that radiated from his lower spine, Wilson succeeded in getting on his bike and peddling onward. It was obvious to him, as he passed, that Minnie had already left for school. So he continued without pause. Though occasionally meeting other children during his journey, Wilson was powering on.

The ride was not long. Since his mother was not there to demand Wilson not take Witcham, he reached the school within a few minutes and quickly dismounted his bike. He noticed a few bikes already lined up next to the main building and briefly worried he might be late. The feeling was short-lived and easily dismissed.

As he walked towards his class, Wilson’s eyes drifted to the old missing poster for Cheryl Lamonica. She had been found last month, yet no one had thought to remove her poster that still littered the billboards and building sides throughout Derry. Underneath her poster, Wilson was able to make out the words ‘Clements – age 3’ and he knew it was for Matthew Clements who had also been found last month.

_Were there so many kids missing, that whoever posts these pictures plasters them one on top of the other because there is no other room? Or because seeing child after child go missing was just depressing?_

“You want to take it down, Wilson?”

The glasses-clad boy snapped around so fast he thought he could feel whatever bone he severed earlier that morning fully dislocate. Behind him stood Stan Uris; the Jew. Not that he wasn’t more than that, but that was just how everyone at school referred to him. The slightly shorter boy’s hair and clothes were immaculate, nothing out of place or stained. He was older than his age; older than Wilson himself in a way.

Wilson smiled and could feel a blush raise against his speckled cheeks, “Uh, yeah. I mean, she’s been found.” He said that last part softly as he turned back to the wall.

The other boy moved next to him. They were not in the same class, they used to hang out occasionally. However, after Stan had to stay back a year the two never seemed to run into each other anymore. Except for weird times like this. Stan reached out carefully, and with the precision, he must bring to everything he does, removed the Lamonica poster. Beneath it, as Wilson had guessed, was the Clements’ boy.

With the poster still in hand, Stan looked to Wilson, “I guess that one should come down too.”

The older boy understood the request, and so he attempted to use the same amount of care as he removed the second poster. Once they were both down, a silence fell on them. Collapsed just like Derry seemed to be collapsing. As the bell rang, and the two went to different parts of the school, they placed the posters kindly into the garbage near the restrooms. A secondary resting place for the memories of them.

The rest of the day progressed as he had expected it. Pop quiz in math and a project assigned in History, the highlight of the day had been lunch and finally the final bell. As Wilson retraced the steps he had taken that morning, he once again looked at the poster board. It was a passing glance, one of those that happen when you check the time and seconds later realize despite having looked you did not actually _look._

As Wilson faced forward again, anxiety spiked within him, and he suddenly looked back to the board. It was empty. Of course, it was empty, he and Stan had taken those posters down this morning. However, he could have sworn he’d seen a poster up there again. And not the ‘Lamonica’ poster or the ‘Clements’ poster, no. It had been a poster with his face on it, and with Stan’s, and probably half of the kids Wilson considers to be friends. He had seen it. The board had been completely covered in posters.

But, maybe it was just one of those things that you think you see. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, or just Wilson’s tired eyes seeing something he was thinking about. The board was empty. Yet, Wilson’s skin crawled.

He looked away again and made a conscious effort not to look back as he exited the school. He got all the way home before he allowed himself to think about the poster board again, but by then the fear had died down – replaced by the love of a dog and the warmth of his mother.       

 

 

4

The next morning came far too soon for Wilson, he had stayed up late reading the last hundred pages of _Return of the King_ , but thankfully this morning did not begin with a fall. Instead, it started with a knock on the door.

“Wilson. Son, you up yet?”

While Wilson heard the disembodied voice of his father filter through the closed door, he chose not to respond in favor of sleep.

“Wilson.” A sigh added to the disembodied voice before the door opened disrupting the peaceful blackness Wilson had been drifting in. “Come on, you need to leave for school shortly and your mother and I wanted to talk to you before you did.”

Something between a whimper and a whine escaped the young boy’s lips. However, it became indiscernible through the thick comforter.

Wilson heard his father laugh and then felt a warm hand pat his shoulder. With great effort, the boy succeeded in opening his heavy eyes. He squinted blearily at his father before mumbling, “I didn’t do whatever it is you think I did.”

He father responded with a louder laugh that made Wilson cringe, and another more forceful pat, “You aren’t in trouble Wil. Come on get up.” When no movement occurred from his son. Francis Hatfield grasped the blanket that covered the sleeping boy, and in one great tug, tore it off his son.

“Dad,” Wilson whined again, temporarily reverting to his younger self, before sitting up. His hair stuck out, flat on the left side from where his head rested on the pillow, up straight and tall on the other. He squinted towards the shape of his father, unable to see the man clearly without his glasses, “Why am I in trouble?” he yawned and cracked his neck.

With a loving smile, the older Hatfield grabbed the black-framed-glasses from the shelf and handed them to his bed-headed son. “You aren’t in trouble.” He turned to leave the room, scratching Neville’s ears with vigor, before adding, “Unless you’d like to be of course.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Laboriously, Wilson crawled to the ladder and lowered himself down to the floor. “Ok, I am up now. Happy.”

The two made their way to the living room, where Catherine Hatfield sat eating what looked to be yogurt. The swell of her stomach stretched farther than Wilson remembered it reaching the other day, but he supposed that was probably normal considering his little sister was due to arrive in just a few weeks.

“Morning Momma,” He yawned yet again, “Sleep well?”

“Yes I did,” She snickered, “please brush your hair before you leave this morning. It is a bit of a rat’s nest today.”

“What is this? Pick on Wilson day.” He joined her on the couch with a huff, “is no one on my side this morning?”

As if on cue, Neville to the opportunity to jump onto Wilson’s open lap and lick his exposed upper chest.

“Alright, alright. I know, you are always on my side. Now go lay down on your bed you lovable mongrel.” He shoved at the large dog until the command was achieved.

Wilson could see his father smiling at the pair; it was one of the older man’s favorite past times. “So, what was with the wakeup call this morning?” he ran his hands through his hair trying and failing, to tame it.

“We just wanted to make sure you were aware of the new curfew. It has been set by the Derry Police Department and goes into effect today. I mentioned it last night at dinner, but you were off in Middle Earth and barely paying attention to anything that was going on. The moon could have crashed into the planet yesterday, and you would have woken up asking ‘what happened?’” his father added not unkindly.

“I wish you would read something more worthwhile.”

“Come on Mom. I never read anything too bad.”

“Wilson. The curfew, yes?”

The boy paused, in honesty, he would rather pretend nothing was happening and that there was no need for a curfew to even be set in place by his parent’s; let alone the city. However, he conceded nonetheless, “Yes dad. I know. I am back before seven most nights anyway.”

“All nights from now on, honey.” His mother ran her hand through his messy hair, and with some kind of ‘motherly magic’, she managed to tame it slightly.

“Yeah, I know. No need to worry.” He shifted with an uncomfortable feeling and the memory of the miss-seen posters. “I always play it safe.”

“Just do not talk to anyone you do not know, and do not assume that just because you know their children that you can trust adults you are not familiar with.”  

Neville took this opportunity to bark once, causing that Hatfields to jump at the unexpected sound.

Francis laughed deeply, “I guess that means we need to stop this conversation and feed a hungry puppy. Am I right boy.” The dog barked again and ran towards the empty food bowl. “Go get ready for school Wilson, and don’t worry too much. We just want you to be safe.”

           

 

5

Despite the newly placed curfew and the feeling of general dread that covered Derry like a thick winter blanket, the days continued much as they always had. Wilson continued to ride to and from school, sometimes accompanied by Minnie – even Bill on a couple occasions, without any notable interruptions.

School was starting to finally wrap up, with only a few more weeks until summer, and the stress of the end of year exams were beginning to get to the students of Derry Elementary. Wilson was immune. He liked to think of it as a gift, school never stressed him out; even classes with Bowers (luckily, he hasn’t had any classes with the bully since Henry had been held back). There had also been whispers that perhaps whoever had come to Derry to hunt children, had left. The last murder had been in March, though the bodies had been found the following month, and while the Newbit boy had died suspiciously there had been no indication of foul play; other than the complacently drunk mother who failed to notice the six-year-old playing in the bathroom. There were even rumors that the curfew was going to be lifted before the beginning of summer, though the police were taking no chances.

Wilson was currently getting some dog treats at the Center Street Drug Store. Finding the treats had been easy, he had been buying them from time-to-time with his allowance since he brought Neville home, but the waiting was a bit harder to accept. When he had entered the drug store, it had been virtually empty. Mr. Keene was in the back, shouting at the teenager working the counter about putting things back where they belong when you move them; the teenage boy looked like he’d rather shovel shit than listen to the old man much longer. Then there was Vicky Bigsby stocking the shelves. She was a senior at Derry High School, and well known for getting what she wanted from absolutely everyone. Other than that, there had been just one other person checking out.   

However, just as Wilson grabbed the overpriced treats from the shelf, the door opened and Sonia Kaspbrak walked in. Wilson had to bite back a groan when the obscenely large woman beat him to the counter.

“I need to refill all of Eddie’s prescriptions. As well as the new medicine for his eczema.” Wilson could hear her wheeze from the exertion of getting to the counter.

Mr. Keene kept a professional appearance, regardless of the obvious exasperation that bubble under the surface. “Mrs. Kaspbrak there is no prescription for ecze-“

She cut him off, “The doctor said it would be here. He has eczema. He is a sick boy.” She made sure the words carried across the entire store. “Fill his prescriptions.”

The old man’s shoulders gave away the hidden sigh, “Alright Mrs. Kaspbrak.” And he began getting to work.

Normally, this would not have slowed down the store check out counter. However, the teenager who had been working when Wilson entered apparently left when he saw Kaspbrak coming. Bigsby was still stocking shelves, but when Wilson glanced she looked him up and down, shaking her head with an annoyed glare.

Resigned to having to wait, Wilson began wandering the aisles. The store was not large, but it had just about everything you could need; cold and flu medicine; allergy pills; even first aid stuff. He turned down aisle five, labeled ‘babies.’ Diapers lined one side and bottles and baby food lined the other.

At the end of the row, on the floor, Wilson noticed something. It was a spot on the floor. Thinking it must have been something that fell off the shelf, the boy walked forward to pick it up.

            _Plunk_

He stopped a couple feet away. Something had fallen from the ceiling down onto the spot; which was a thick, deep red-black substance. Slowly he looked up towards the origin of the forming puddle.

A sound escaped him that he had no control over, like a mix between a gasp and a curse. Wilson could hear Mrs. Kaspbrak comment about obnoxious children faintly in the background, but his eyes were locked on the slick wet form hanging from the ceiling above his head.

            _Plunk_

The skin was torn, ripped open revealing pink-grey organs hanging down from within the body. The fur was nearly unrecognizable, coated in globs of congealed blood. The jaw, missing, leaving the tongue to hang from the opening of the throat; blood gathered at the tip.

            _Plunk_

He was shaking. Wilson was vaguely aware that he was shaking. He took another step closer. Desperate to see if it was a prank, some cruel unthinkable prank. Around the neck of the creature, near the carnage where the mouth used to be, Wilson could just make out a silver dog tag; Neville.

Bile rushed into Wilson’s mouth, and he clasped a hand tight against it to prevent a scream. His eyes were locked on the remains of his dog, tears blurring the image.

“Mr. Hatfield, are you ill?” a hand touched his shoulder causing his knees to give way.

Wilson fell to the floor with a thud, his and hand slipped and he dry heaved onto the floor.

            _Plunk_

“Jesus,” Mr. Keene’s voice was muffled. “Ok, kid. Come on, let’s get you over to the waiting area and I’ll call your folks.”

Wilson felt hands grip his arms and pull him back onto his feet. With effort, he did not look back up. Instead focusing on the growing puddle on the floor. His stomach revolted again as a whine rained down from above.

“Alright, son. Just sit here for a moment. I’ll call you folks and get you a glass of water.” It was odd for Mr. Keene to be so kind, but Wilson was more preoccupied to care. Carefully, he lifted his head. He forced himself to stop just shy of the figure hanging above. This did not prevent the shadow from being seen, nor from Wilson’s gaze to return to that spot on the floor which was still just in sight.

He could feel himself blanch again and the acid reenter his mouth. The spot was bigger now, but Vicky Bigsby was standing in it. The heal of her shoe an inch deep in the thick lump of half congealed blood, the white exterior now spotted with pink. Wilson felt his eyes clench shut and brought his hand to his head, trying to prevent the whimpers and whines from above to enter his skull.

Wilson stayed like that for some time. He was not sure whether or not the thing – it could not be Neville; it was a creature – that was strung up on the ceiling like a discarded carcass at a butcher. Eventually, a warm hand startled him enough for Wilson to look up once again acknowledging the world. His father was in front of him, his brow creased with light concern, and his hand checking the pale boy’s forehead for fever.

“Hey, buddy. Mr. Keene said you were sick.” His dad removed the hand and brought it to the boy’s shoulder. “Damn, you don’t feel hot, but that shirt is soaked through. Let’s get you out of here.” As he helped Wilson stand, Francis, looked towards the back counter. “Thank you for calling Mr. Keene. I am sorry for any trouble this caused.”

There was some shuffling, “No trouble. The incident helped speed along a somewhat bothersome transaction.” The old man chuckled at his own joke.

“Well, thank you regardless. Alright, Wilson.” Strong hands pulled the boy up and held him close.

While the boy was still lost somewhere between disbelief and terror, feeling his father’s concern helped ease him out of his stupor.

 

 

 

6

Wilson decided that allowing his parents to fret over him under the assumption he was sick was a far better experience than telling them that he had seen the disembowel remains of his dog hanging from the ceiling. So, he spent the next two days curled up on the couch with Neville never leaving his sight.

His unwillingness to leave Neville alone did not go unnoticed by his parents; especially after he tried to convince them to allow his dog to accompany him to school once he returned. Both of them assumed that their son must have just read another scary book or comic. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in the Hatfield household.

Wilson had not forgotten the creature that hung from the ceiling. Nor did he trust that nothing was going to happen to his beloved four-legged friend. However, he had no choice but to return to school and continue on with his life. He was taking no chances though. Wilson had read enough science fiction and seen enough movies to know that when things like that happened, you had to be prepared for anything.

The day he returned to school, Wilson made sure that he was running behind. Just so that both his parents would be gone before he left. He removed Neville’s collar first, it would be one less thing that the creature could grab onto should it decide to attack while he was gone. He also made sure that the back door was cracked. Not wide enough for a passerby to notice it and not wide enough for Neville to try and escape, but enough so that should something try to get in the front door Neville would be able to muscle his way out the back.

Once his preparations were complete, Wilson went to the garage and grabbed his bike. With one last look towards the house, he rode off towards a day of worry and planning.

 

 

7

Nothing happened. Not that day, nor the days following. Wilson was beginning to think that he might have been sick after all. Perhaps a fever-induced delusion. Or maybe, some chemical was seeping out of the containers in the drug store that day and causing him see things.

Wilson was not stupid. He knew monsters did not exist. There was no boogie man living in his closet, no trolls under his bed, and certainly, there was no alien implanting visions in his head. Of course, in many ways, the alternative to a creature slowly sucking the life out of him was more terrifying. He had read plenty of stories about people going crazy, seeing and hearing things, and the last thing Wilson wanted was for his parents to have no choice but to ship him off to Juniper Hill. Where he would be locked up with all the other crazy people. No, that reality was far scarier than some creature stalking him.

Wilson was once again walking his dog and contemplating his probable insanity. Derry had warmed up quite a bit over the last week, and the rain clouds had given way to the bright sun that came with the approaching summer. School was on its last legs, just a week and a half left now, and it could not come any faster.

The curfew was still in effect, Wilson did not know if it was the threat of the rule continuing into summer that had the children of Derry so stifled, or if there was another reason for the perpetual melancholy. While it was true the supposed killer was still at large, most people had begun to assume they had long since left town.

_Unless the killer was not human._

The bespectacled boy gave a frustrated sigh and ran a frustrated hand through his messy hair tugging on the leash enough to cause Neville to huff lightly. “This is ridiculous!”

“What is?”

“Don’t do that Minnie! Just give me a heart attack already!” She was standing a few feet from him, already bending down to accept Neville’s endless affection. She had lost weight, Wilson noted silently. He contemplated for a moment about the effects of grief on siblings left behind. It had been a trend in Derry recently; Corcoran, Denbrough, Fabayn, then Newbit. All of them leaving a sibling alone in the world they were supposed to face together. A shiver, brought on by wind or something more sinister, ran through Wilson’s body. He hoped, in that moment, that his younger sister never had to deal with losing him the way they had to deal with the loss of younger siblings. He selfishly wished he might also be spared from it.

“Wilson, I asked you a question.” Minnie was standing again, her hands still filled with Neville’s head, but her green eyes were locked on the older boy’s, “Are you alright? You’ve been,” she paused, suddenly looking uncertain.

“Yeah, I am fine. I just. Never mind.” He joined her in petting the furball at their feet, trying to change the subject. “You excited for the end of school?”

Her eyes fell to the dog, allowing him to lovingly run his tongue endlessly across her hands – _a tongue that was not hanging from a missing jaw or dripping blood_ – “I guess,” it sounded hollow; reserved.

For a fleeting second, Wilson wondered if maybe she had seen something. She had been with Lawrence, on that day, she had run away screaming and was clearly aware that someone was hurting her brother. But the words could not form in Wilson’s mouth, instead, it ran dry and cracked. He swallowed, trying to formulate a response. “Yeah.” His word also came out dry, “I guess, summer will be…” _will be what you idiot._

She looked at him again, and smiled, “It is going to be,” her gaze clouded and she stilled for a few seconds, “going to be a bit unnerving without Lawrence.” Her tongue ran over her lips in an anxious tic leading the way for her teeth to pull at the lower one ruthlessly.

A car honked, it was her father pulling into their driveway a few houses down from where they stood. Wilson watched her wave towards the aging man, “I guess you got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

She turned back slowly, her eyes catching the gutter a few feet away and Wilson thought he saw a flash of something blanket her features, but it was gone before he was able to decide what emotion it must have been. Her voice was pinched just slightly, a tone that had become normal whenever mentioning her late brother, “Yeah. See ya.” Wilson watched her walk off. Noting that she glanced back towards the gutter twice before reaching her father.

Neville barked after her, annoyed at the sudden lack of affection. When his barking changed nothing, the black and brown dog sat down in defiance.

The boy observed the two greet and enter their house before looking back at his dog, who was now laying in defiance – sitting was obviously not working for him. “Come on boy,” Wilson tugged gently on the leash, but Neville still refused to move. Though he did look up at his owner. “If you don’t get up I’ll leave you.” The gangly boy threatened. When the dog refused once again, Wilson sat in the grass beside him with a huff, and slowly laid back so his head was resting on the soft fur. “If I am crazy Neville, you will still love me right?” he did not wait for a response, “I mean. You won’t care, will you?”

A wet tongue ran across the underside of Wilson’s neck, he laughed and brought his hands up to scratch his dog’s fur. “I love you too, buddy.” They stayed there for a while, watching the sun slowly fall in the sky and the scattered clouds move from one side to the other. Eventually, the mild heat of the day gradually gave way to the chill of the night.

           

 

8

Wilson only realized he had fallen asleep because he could hear an unusual hissing sound somewhere near his head. It was not the sound of the fan he sometimes had on in his room, nor the sound of the heater kicking on in their small house. The noise sounded almost animalistic, if not for the odd metallic hum that accompanied the endless droning. The ground beneath him was wet, as though water had somehow flooded up from under him, and his back was soaked through. A shiver forced its way through his body, and Wilson curled inward to try and prevent the second one from making itself known. Where was Neville?

Wilson’s eyes snapped open and he sat up frantic. It was dark, near black, and the soil below him felt thick. “Neville,” his voice broke. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dimness. “I am dreaming. Fuck….I must be dreaming.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head, shaking it harshly.

He was not in the grass by the turnoff for West Broadway, nor was he in his bedroom. The soil he gripped into moments ago was not dirt, it was instead concentrated grime and sewage. Before him stood a cavern, bricks built up the edges and curved into a dome roof, a viscous black liquid ran through it slowly, and that hissing sound still rained down from somewhere in the shadows. Reluctantly Wilson opened his eyes again and carefully stood. “Okay, I must be dreaming,” he bent down to wipe off what he could, the tar-like sewage stuck to his fingers like icing on a cake. He noticed his hands were shaking, and he gave a breathy laugh. He flicked his hands, knocking off the majority of the black substance. It made soft splashing sounds as it hit the water.

Wilson’s wet clothes caused him to shiver again, and his teeth chatter despite himself. Taking a deep breath, he looked around again. The room was empty, barring the dark water and build up, three passages branched off and none of them seemed to lead to an exit. It was like a maze, like the maze – the labyrinth – that holds the Minotaur in the old Greek story. He moved towards the three passageways, “Neville?” Silence greeted him.

Wilson’s hand vibrated with his growing anxiety, “shit…” He looked around again, before moving through the middle passageway. The walls were much closer to him now, moist with residual water that had filtered through the ground soil and slick in appearance, curving just a few feet above his head. He tried to keep his movement quiet, but each step splashed and glubbed, and his breathing seemed abnormally loud to his ears.

The tunnel continued for fifty feet, the room he had left now completely invisible. The new area was larger than the last, ceilings reaching at least fifteen feet and the water pooled here making it appear even higher. The droning hum was less noticeable here, and as Wilson shifted uncomfortably he almost thought it had stopped. His eyes scoured the walls and ceiling, looking for any sign that would indicate an exit. He knew he was in the sewer, so there had to be some kind of exit; a ladder or manhole or the standpipe even.

He was shifting still, the anxiety unrelenting grew within him. Carefully, Wilson moved around the sides of the room, not wanting to fall into the dark water, the ground was slippery making each step treacherous. He slid twice. The second time, his left leg skidded calf-deep into the muck. Upon pulling it out, he shook it trying to dislodge the bits that had stuck to him.

Then he heard it. That humming sound was back and it was louder. Wilson stopped moving, crouching down near the water’s edge, he listened trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. At first, he thought that the sound was from some machine up above ground, but now that he listened to it the sound seemed to be coming up from under the water. He leaned over the side, squinting into the thick muck, he tried not to breathe loudly as he got closer.

Wilson knew many things. He knew that adults were people; he understood that fiction is fake; and he understood that monster did not exist, at least not supernatural ones. However, gazing deep into the murky water, Wilson was certain he could see something far under the surface. Vaguely, he remembers his father telling tall tales about alligators living in the sewers under big cities like New York. Wilson had thought the idea of that was rather funny and unbelievable, but right now he suddenly was not so sure anymore.

Holding his breath, Wilson backed away from the edge of the water. He was moving slowly, desperate to not slip and fall in again, his heart continued to pound painfully against his rib cage. _This is ridiculous._ His mind screamed at him angrily as hot tears slowly bubbled to the corners of his eyes causing his glasses to fog slightly. _This is ridiculous. I am at home, in my bed. Any minute now I’ll be woken up by Neville or my mom._ Scalding drops of salt water cleared pathways down his speckled cheeks.

Large air pockets bust through the tense surface of the water, and Wilson felt his eyes widen and more hot liquid spill out. _It cannot end here. I need to get out of here. I need to be home._ The pops across the surface increased in frequency, as though something was coming up from the depths.

A new thought sprang into Wilson’s mind, that perhaps this was real. That maybe the person that got George and Lawrence, the thing that tore Betty Ripsom apart, maybe that thing wasn’t a person. An unknown spike of sheer desperation ran from his fingers through his spin and out his head. If he died here, no one would ever find him. He would never get to meet his little sister and no one would ever know what happened to him. He would simply end up on that fucking bulletin board outside the school. Except Stanley would never remove Wilson’s smiling dead face because it would never be resolved.

He jerked and spun his head to the right. There was another tunnel on the far end of the room. If he jumped, he might be able to get across the gap without landing in the water. And that tunnel – that tunnel _had_ to be the way out of this nightmare.

Without waiting any longer, Wilson attempted to run. His right foot lost all traction and slid out from under him, he fell onto his hands and knees. Pain jarred through him, running up his femur and through his hips, but he pushed it aside and scrambled back to his feet. He tried again, falling into the wall this time, slamming his shoulder into the algae covered brick, but he recovered faster.

Wilson could hear the surface of the water break behind him as he jumped. It wasn’t graceful, but he did manage to make the gap without falling into the dingy liquid. Landing on all fours once more, he dug his fingers into the mush covering the ground and inhaled the rotten scent of earth before sprinting forward. This second tunnel was far narrower than the previous one, and for a second Wilson was worried it would close in on him. The splashing sound kept him going.

He blindly turned down more corridors, sliding on the sewage and frantically pulling himself back to his feet after each fall. His chest burned and his eyes blurred as he took a left towards the sound of running water. He lost traction again, throwing his hands out in front to brace the fall, and jammed his left ring finger against the concert; hearing it crack and the sting of his nail being torn from his hand. A breathy cry fell from his mouth, while his chest sucked desperate for more oxygen, and he struggled to keep going. Seconds later he collapsed against the far wall, sobs trying to break free but unable to find the power to do so. His body ached nearly as painful as his heart, and the realization that he was probably never going to escape this hell was an awareness that seeped through him like a disease; slowly killing him from the inside out.

Wilson lifted his head and clutched his hand to his chest, cautious not to move his oddly bent bleeding finger, and tried to decide what to do next. There was no longer a humming, nor was there splashing. It was silent except for the sound of running water. He stood, his legs shaking painfully as the muscles revolted against use, and hobbled on. The tunnels widened once more, and he thought it may have also brightened. Renewed hope erupted, and he strained to pick up speed once again.

It was light, waning light like the sun was getting ready to set, and Wilson fought back a cry. The pipe ended deep within the Barrens, based on the deep foliage, and upon exiting the darkness the thirteen-year-old fell to the ground and fresh tears fell from his eyes accompanied with ugly sobs. He crawled, still desperate to get away from the creature that lived within the sewer and then struggled to stand.

“Wilson!” that was his mother!

“Mom,” he could barely whisper the word out, fighting to get her.

“Wilson!” there was hysteria in each shout.

“Wilson,” that was his father’s voice that time complemented by a bark.

“Neville,” the boy cried again, falling back onto his knees at the top of the large hill.

A frantic howl echoed through the fading light, but relief did not come with it. Sudden dread welled in Wilson’s gut and he froze, “Come float with me.”

Finally, a scream ripped forth.      


	5. Derry News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interlude of sorts - sorry it is a bit (much ^_^) shorter than the others. Fear not, if you enjoy the massive-long chapters they will return next week @_@ Enjoy! <3

1

 

From the Derry News, January 14th, 1958 (page 1)

 

DEATH OF LAWRENCE FABAYN RAISES NEW FEARS

Two children dead within a month, authorities fear spree

 

Eleven-year-old Lawrence Fabayn was pronounced dead late yesterday, following an attack on Kansas Street near West Broadway. He and his twin sister, Minnie, were returning home when they encountered the believed killed. While Minnie escaped physically unharmed and was able to alert the nearby residence of the situation, his death marks the third in a rash of child murders haunting Derry and local police fear the murders have turned into a killing spree.

     Minnie Fabayn has been subjected to questioning but has been unable to give any leads to the police. Bangor child psychologist Dr. Pierce has been assisting Derry Police in the examination of Miss. Fabayn, but he is not hopeful any new information will come from it. According to Pierce the loss of a sibling can be “more mentally scarring than the loss of a parent,” and that such “devastation will be magnified due to the bond shared by twins, potentially resulting in misinformation.” He continued stating that should information be given regarding the alleged murderer, “due to Minnie’s previous head trauma, any information we might find should be taken with a grain of salt.”

      The statement caused a bit of unrest in the station during the interview and no further questions were able to be asked at that time. Reports have confirmed that Minnie was released into her father’s custody and was not admitted to the hospital.

     An anonymous source shared hospital records, which revealed that Minnie Fabayn did experience a severe head injury at the age of seven and was subsequently diagnosed with a seizure disorder. While this does not substantialize Dr. Pierce’s claims that information obtained through Miss. Fabayn would be unreliable, it does facture into the situation.

      Regardless, we offer condolences to the Fabayn family.

    

 

2

 

From the Derry News, January 16th, 1958 (page 3)

 

FABAYN’S DEATH BRINGS NO LEADS; SISTER REMOVED FROM QUESTIONING

 

New reports brought unethical behavior to light. Young Minnie Fabayn, held for questioning regarding the murder of her brother on the 13th of this month, was removed from the hospital without the consent of her father, Larry Fabayn. Previous information that she had been released into her father’s custody now assumed false.

     According to leaked reports, the Derry Police Department and child psychologist Dr. Pierce brought Miss. Fabayn from the hospital (just minutes after the death of her brother) to the police station for questioning, without first gaining permission from Mr. Fabayn her legal guardian. Sources with the Bangor Police Department claim that this unethical action would negate any information, Miss. Fabayn might have shared with the police, and that the extreme stress placed upon the young girl would have likely made any future testimonies to be labeled inadmissible in court because of it.

     This discovery has the parents of Betty Ripsom threatening to sue the justice department. “There could have been a real lead,” Mr. Ripsom told reporters, “we could have found out the truth about my daughter’s death. Instead, our police have further traumatized a young kid and have done nothing to find this monster.” Betty Ripsom’s body was found the day after Christmas of last year, eviscerated. The second murder following George Denbrough in October.

     Mr. Fabayn has refused comment, but the Derry Police Department has offered an apology. Further stating that they were “desperate for answers” and that Miss. Fabayn had been the “only witness to any of these crimes.” The statement concluded, “We apologize and will find out who has committed these crimes.”

      Dr. Pierce has since been put on paid leave. Following the events with Miss. Fabayn, multiple patients have come forward expressing similar ethical concerns regarding both Pierce and his practice. He too refused to comment.

 

 

3

 

From the Derry News, April 23rd, 1958 (page 1)

 

DEATH OF SIX-YEAR-OLD NOT CONNECTED TO OTHER MURDERS

Charles Newbit’s death deemed accidental

 

The body of six-year-old Charles Newbit was discovered last evening by his sister. He was found in the upstairs bathroom, and according to police was dead on arrival. Though the cause of death has not been made public, sources have said the body had evidence of trauma to the head.

     Initial responses believe the death was connected to the rash of murders that has struck Derry within the last six months. Newbit is the sixth child to die in Derry since George Denbrough, who was the same age as Newbit, was killed last October. Following the death of Denbrough, Betty Ripsom, Lawrence Fabayn, Matthew Clements, and Cheryl Lamonica (ranging in age from 3-16) have all been confirmed dead. However, police are standing by their previous assertion, that these events are not connected.

     While speculations have been running wild throughout our small community, police have stated numerous times that they believe the deaths of Denbrough, Ripsom, and Fabayn were likely the work of a single killer. Whereas, Clements’ abduction and murder is considered a separate event. Likewise, Lamonica was assumed to have been killed by a former or current boyfriend; though no arrests have been made, despite the questioning of at least three different boys in connection with Lamonica.

     According to police, Newbit’s mother was intoxicated at the time of the child’s death and there is no evidence of foul play being disclosed currently. There are rumors flying around regarding the potential arrest of Elaine Newbit, Charles’ mother, at this time the police had no comment.

 

 

4

 

From the Derry News, April 25th, 1958 (page 3):

 

CHARLES NEWBIT’S DEATH RAISES NEW SUSPICIONS

Mother claims foul play

 

Elaine Newbit (age 42), mother of the late Charles Newbit (age 6), claims foul play in connection with her son’s death. On the evening of April 22nd, as previously reported, Charles Newbit’s body was found by his sister, Elizabeth (age 11), at approximately nine-forty-five. Elizabeth had returned home early from a play date and discovered the deceased in their shared bathroom.

     Although the full coroner reports have yet to be released to the public, the cause of death has been confirmed as blunt trauma to the head and blood loss. According to police, the six-year-old had been playing in the bathroom, slipped, fell, and caught his jaw on the edge of the bathtub. The initial impact is reported to have rendered him unconscious, while the alleged dislocation and separation of his jaw, and subsequent bleeding, is directly responsible for the death.

     While the initial reports, claiming father Wayne Newbit (professor at Husson College in Bangor; age 40) was out of the state and Elaine Newbit was incapacitated due to the effects of alcohol, still appear to accurate. However, Mrs. Newbit now claims her wine was drugged and that an intruder murdered her son. She is cooperating with police at this time.

      “Charles had been telling stories about a woman, stalking him,” Mrs. Newbit told reporters late yesterday afternoon, “we thought it was just his imagination. You know little kids, they can scare themselves with almost anything.” According to authorities, police had been called to Derry Elementary in the week before Charles’ death after he had stated that a woman had been in the boy’s locker-room outside the gymnasium. While no such person was found, the report is on record and the police department did a thorough sweep of the school grounds that day.

      When asked, Mr. Newbit stated that his wife’s claim was “created out of guilt” and that her “alcoholism” was directly responsible for the death of their son. He offered no further statements, though did file for divorce and custody of Elizabeth according to our sources.

 

 

5

 

From the Derry News, May 28th, 1958 (page 1)

 

MISSING; WILSON FRANCIS HATFIELD – AGE 13

Last seen Tuesday, May 27th on Witcham Street

 

Wilson Hatfield, of West Broadway, was last seen walking his dog Tuesday afternoon down Witcham Street towards Route 2. He is four-feet-ten inches tall, weighing roughly 91 pounds, has dark black-brown eyes, pale skin with dark freckles, wavy black hair, and thick black rimmed rectangular glasses. According to his parents, Wilson was wearing dark wash jeans and a white t-shirt at the time of his disappearance, to their knowledge, he did not have any type of jacket so weather is also a concern.

     He was reported missing after his dog returned home without him at precisely five-thirty-six last evening. Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield have stated that they knew at that moment “something was wrong” and immediately went to police. Though legally an individual must be missing twenty-four hours to file an official report, because of the recent events in Derry the police force has taken the claim seriously.

     The last person to see Wilson was eleven-year-old Minnie Fabayn. Sister to Lawrence Fabayn, who was killed this past January. Though the exact details are not being released at this time, police have said that at the time of her departure no other person was present on the street.

     If you see a child matching Wilson’s physical description, please call the Derry Police Department immediately.

 

 

6

 

From the Derry News, May 28th, 1958 (page 8)

 

IS IT COINCIDENCE

Could Minnie Fabayn be the key to finding out the truth?

 

First, her brother, then her friend, is it possible that Minnie Fabayn is the key to discovering the identity of the Derry child murderer? Speculations abound, as Derry native Minnie Fabayn, 11, is yet again a source for the police in the investigations into the killing spree plaguing Derry.

      Although her connection is likely nothing more than an unlucky coincidence, it is strange for a single person to be at the center of two different cases. Miss. Fabayn’s role in these cases is rather black and white. Lawrence was her twin brother, and the currently missing Wilson is a close friend.

      Is there a connection to the other missing or killed children? Yes. Miss. Fabayn has been in classes with Bill Denbrough – older brother to the late George – and Elizabeth Newbit – older sister to the late Charles. While there is no correlation to the Clements or Lamonica cases, the situation seems fishy.

     Perhaps it is a stalker, or, more troublingly, perhaps Minnie Fabayn is actually responsible for the murders. Homicidal tendencies have been linked to brain injuries in the past.

 

 

7

 

From the Derry News, May 29th, 1958 (page 6)

 

ELAINE NEWBIT ARRESTED

Mother of Charles Newbit arrested in connection with his death

 

Elaine Newbit was arrested early this morning, charged with child neglect and child endangerment in connection with her late son’s death. We reported last month about the accidental death of six-year-old Charles Newbit, found in the upstairs bathroom. Despite his mother’s claims that foul play was involved, police have moved forward with her arrest and stated definitively that his death was nothing more than a tragic accident.

     Earlier this month Mrs. Newbit’s now ex-husband gained full custody of their eleven-year-old daughter and relocated to Bangor. Mrs. Newbit stayed adamant that someone had been responsible for the apparent accidental death of Charles, but after rigorous investigations, no evidence of a third party was found.

     These revelations coupled with the woman’s continued extensive use of alcohol convinced police that the best course of action was to place charges. At this time Elaine Newbit is being held at the local jail and could be transferred following the trial.

     Mrs. Newbit’s attorney, though refusing to comment, seems confident in an acquittal. Sources have also confirmed that Mr. Newbit was having sexual relations with at least three graduate students. The ex-husband was unreachable for comment. 

 

 

8

 

From the Derry News, June 1st, 1958 (page 1)

 

HATFIELD FOUND; KILLER STILL AT LARGER

Wilson Hatfield found on the outskirts of the Barrens

 

Thirteen-year-old Wilson Hatfield was found yesterday, May 31st, four days after he was reported missing. The Hatfield family, along with volunteers and authorities, formed a search party in an attempt to leave no stone unturned within the Derry town limits. The party set out on the 30th and concluded on the 31st around four in the afternoon when Wilson was found.

      The boy, who had reportedly suffered multiple fractures, abrasions, and a series of lacerations along his upper back and neck, was taken to Derry Home Hospital where he remains in critical condition.

      The Derry Police Department has released the following statement, “Wilson Hatfield was recovered, and though in critical condition, we are considering this a victory. He and his family are in our thoughts and prayers at this time. We encourage the community to continue to show their support. Wilson is a strong boy, and we believe that he was abducted in the late afternoon of May 27th and held captive until sometime on May 31st, based on his physical condition, it seems likely that the person responsible is adult man – as we have previously assumed. We also believe this individual’s base of operations is likely to be somewhere along the outskirts of the city.”

      All of Derry is cheering for Wilson’s fast recovery.  

 

 

9

 

From the Derry News, June 5th, 1958 (page 4)

 

HATFIELD ATTACK NOT CONNECTED

Police now saying that Wilson Hatfield’s case is not related to previous murders

 

Wilson Hatfield, 13, is still in critical condition after being found on May 31st. Despite Wilson still being unable to testify on the matter, the Derry Police Department believe that young Hatfield may have simply got lost that fateful Tuesday.

     “The MO of this case is different than that of the previous cases. While it might still be possible that someone attacked Wilson, the evidence seems to state that most of his injuries were caused by his exposure to the elements.” The police chief told the media when questioned further about the lacerations Hatfield sustained on his back and neck, the police chief refused to comment.

     A spokesperson for the Hatfield family expresses the annoyance of the family regarding the issue. “My clients know their son. Wilson would not have run off voluntarily, certainly not without his dog, and always returns home before his parents set curfew of seven-thirty; even before the citywide curfew was in effect. He has never betrayed his parents’ trust, and because of his friendship with the Fabayn children would never take the situation in Derry for a joke. To infer that his abduction and confinement was simply childish games is an insult to the family.” The spokesperson then updated the media on Wilson’s condition. “Wilson is still unconscious and in critical condition. Doctors are hopeful that he will regain consciousness. However, until then the full extent of his situation cannot be known for certain, but we are confident that once he wakes up Wilson will be able to help police find the person responsible for terrorizing Derry.”

 

 

10

 

From the Derry News, June 19th, 1958 (page 3)

 

HATFIELD BOY TO BE MOVED TO BANGOR

Parents of Wilson Hatfield decide to move son to Bangor

 

Late last month _The Derry New_ reported on the disappearance of thirteen-year-old Wilson Hatfield, who was recovered shortly afterward. Wilson has been unconscious at Derry Home Hospital since his recovery, and reports now claim that his parents plan on moving him to Bangor.

     Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield welcomed their second child, Willow Grace Hatfield, on June 17th. According to a family insider, the youngest Hatfield has been admitted to the hospital because of respiratory distress and probable infection. Since the newborn needs more care than Derry Home feels they can provide, she and her mother are being transferred to Bangor. Following the events, the transfer of Wilson Hatfield has also been confirmed. The spokesperson for the family commented saying, “Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield are doing everything in their power to keep the family together. They are also hopeful that the change might be beneficial to their son.”

      Francis Hatfield, Derry safety worker, and father to Wilson and Willow, did give a statement on the matter, “Keeping our family together is important to us, and so for the time being all five of us will be in Bangor. Thank you for your support, and watch your children.” The fifth member of the Hatfield family appears to be Wilson’s two-year-old dog.

 

 

11

From the Derry News, June 21st, 1958 (page 6)

 

WILSON HATFIELD WAKES

Just days following the transfer, the alleged sixth victim awakens

 

News from Bangor this morning is bright as Wilson Hatfield finally awakes. As you will recall, Wilson Hatfield (age 13) was reported missing on Tuesday, May 27th and found the following Saturday, May 31st. Since then he has been unconscious and unresponsive.

      Earlier this week, we reported that the Hatfield family would temporarily move to Bangor while both children underwent treatment. Wilson woke up for the first time early this morning, and regardless of his apparent confusion had a tearful introduction to his baby sister Willow (who we would like to share is also doing fine) he seems to be in good spirits.

      The majority of Hatfield’s injuries have healed, though some of the fractures are still in the mending process. Upon further observation, Wilson has since been diagnosed with paraplegia due to the upper spine injury caused by a number of lacerations to the region. In response to this, the family spokesperson relayed Wilson’s sentiments, “he said, and I quote, ‘that sucks. Good thing Neville [his dog] is a good learner.’ He then asked to hold his sister.” Professionals at the hospital have expressed their amazement at Wilson’s response, one telling us, “He says he is just happy to meet his baby sister.”

      Wilson’s awakening brings more questions back into the fold as another child, Edward Corcoran, 11, has gone missing (refer to _MISSING BOY PROMPTS NEW FEARS_ on page 1). Though Derry Police are still questioning whether the Hatfield case is connected to the previous murders, the disappearance of Corcoran is pushing them to take every option into consideration. The doctors in Bangor have cleared Hatfield for questioning, though at this time his parents have not given consent, and there are rumors that a small Derry taskforce will be taking a trip to Bangor later this week to speak to the boy.

      With the release of school for the summer, the anxiety in Derry seems to have magnified. The Derry Police Department urges parents to be aware of their children’s whereabouts at all times, even during the workday, and to have open conversations with their children regarding the state of Derry. The department offered this statement, “The curfew stands, but the best protection your children have is communication. We understand that summer is a time of fun for children, but please remember that these are dangerous times.”

 

 

12

 

From the Derry News, June 24th, 1958 (page 7)

 

HATFIELD BRINGS NO NEW LEADS

Interview with the Hatfield boy brings more questions than answers

 

Police have confirmed that Wilson Hatfield’s testimony brings more questions than it does answers. According to police, the young boy found late last month after being missing for approximately four days did not get a look at the attacker. “He claims that when he woke up, he was alone,” one officer told the press.

      Inside sources say that Mr. Hatfield’s story is likely being affected by the stress and physical trauma surrounding the situation. Many people are now questioning the police’s competency, as this marks the third time their examinations lead to no further information. This also comes as the body, found near the entrance to the sewers a few weeks ago, has been confirmed as the missing child Veronica Grogan.


	6. Stephen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!!!!!!  
> 2nd thing - I will resume posting on Jan 7th and there might be another break the weekend after that as I am moving into a new apartment.  
> Have a wonderful Christmas (if you celebrate; if not I hope you still have a wonderful season) and a happy new year!

1

            Stephen Etchells was bouncing in his seat, located in the center of his fifth grade Derry Elementary classroom. His internal excitement uncontrollable by his body, normally this would cause him to stand out amongst the other students but today was the last day before summer vacation. Every single person in his classroom was just as excited and just as eager to escape the confines of the school.

            Stephen’s bright sky blue eyes shielded slightly from large framed glasses, flickered from classmate to classmate, looking for any sign of annoyance at his actions – it was a common occurrence in his classes. Even he would admit, there were two poster boys for hyperactivity in the fifth grade; Richie Tozier, the wisecracking know-it-all with a dirty mouth; and Stephen, the ball of fluttering energy who can barely sit still outside of music rehearsal. Unluckily for their fifth-grade teacher, both boys were in her class this year. The blue eyes landed on the aforementioned class clown.

Richie Tozier was miles away it seemed, his red hair disheveled and his hand animated in some story he was sharing. He was almost falling out of his chair when Stephen looked, but miraculously he seemed perfectly balanced, even as his head flew back in obnoxious laughter. On a few occasions, in years past, the two boys had even sat together. Though that never lasted more than a week tops. They were loud, but together they were deafening. Stephen prided himself on not receiving too many detentions regarding classroom conduct, and he also prided himself knowing that while Richie received C’s and D’s in conduct he received solid C’s never anything below that. Regardless, after a few incidents in second grade, the two were never placed together again. Stephen believed it was a conspiracy, and that the teachers had begun sending each other warning notes about the pair.

            The fifth-grade teacher was walking around handing out grades now, leaving the students to be as loud as they desired. Stephen sighed as his foot continued to bounce restlessly, towards the front of the classroom sat two children which were obviously less enthusiastic about the final moments of school. Stephen never spoke to them, Denbrough and Fabayn respectively, but he certainly knew who they were. However, Stephen’s already short attention span was cut off by the bell signaling the end of the school year and the beginning of summer vacation. Although, their class would be held in for a few more minutes since their teacher was perpetually late; at everything.   

            On cue, their teacher dismissed the class roughly three minutes after the bell rang. At last, the foot stopped vibrating, and the pudgy blonde reached over to grab his torn faded shoulder bag. Other classmates gathered things quickly and were out the door before the teacher even fully dismissed them. Stephen waited for the others to all exit before standing. He wasn’t a fat kid, not like that Hanscom boy, but he was definitely heavier than most of his classmates. He knew this fact shouldn’t bother him as much as it does, but if forcing himself to wait an extra two minutes meant less judging looks or nasty comments it worked for him.

            The hallway was empty by the time Stephen entered it, thankfully that also meant no Bowers and crew hanging around either. The eleven-year-old blonde shuffled out of the school and went to the bench nearest the parking lot. It was Friday, which meant his tuba teacher would be picking him up today and bringing him back home. Years ago, Stephen’s grandmother would drive him three days a week into Portland for lessons – music seemed to be the best medicine for the boy’s hyperactivity. However, her eyesight was getting worse and driving long distances after dusk was no longer a possibility. Stephen’s teacher, Nathan, volunteered to drive twice a week to Derry to maintain the lessons. Nathan believed he was talented, and that meant a great deal to the blonde.

            There were only two people that held a high place in Stephen’s life; his grandma and Nathan. Despite her limited funds and a small apartment, Nan took him in without a second thought after his parents died – or at least he was told she did. Stephen was just over a year old when they died in a car accident outside of Charleston. When Stephen had shown an interest in music when he was six, his Nan dropped everything and tried to find a teacher. He had been young, and most people confirmed that and said he was ‘too young’ to have private lessons, but his grandmother insisted. As fate would have it, Nathan was taken with the young boy. He showed Stephen all sorts of instruments and let him decide which he wanted to learn. The tuba stuck out to Stephen, and while the size of the instrument had been challenging initially the enjoyment he got from learning it made him try even harder. Nathan even went out of his way to get the young boy an instrument of his very own. The tuba, a Miraphone Kaiser B-Tuba no less, had been far beyond the budget for gifts Nan could afford, but Nathan went ahead and bought it for the boy. When Nan questioned the gift, Nathan simply said he knew Stephen would become a professional player. The tuba was Stephen’s prized possession. He even named it Jupiter, after the massive planet.

            While he was waiting, Stephen watched straggling classmates finish conversations and ride each other double. He also spotted Bill Denbrough again, this time he was with a short blonde boy who Stephen recognized because of the asthma inhaler as Eddie Kaspbrak. They were soon blocked from his sight by Nathan’s white Chevy.

            Stephen was at the car door before Nathan had even pulled fully to a stop, “Woah, careful there bud. What have your grandma and I said about being careful?”

            The blonde smile, Nathan was more like a father than a teacher, “I know, but I was excited.” His toothy grin could light up the room, like a candle in the darkness.

            Nathan chuckled and waited for Stephen to buckle his seat belt, before driving the relatively short distance to the apartment the Etchells resided in.

            The apartment was small and rather worn down. The complex stood just past Canal Street off of Main, and according to his grandmother had been standing there for a good fifty years at least. The apartment, which was on the corner of the third floor, had two small bedrooms, a cluttered kitchen, and a small nearly nonfunctional bathroom. Before his parents had died, and when Nan lived there alone, Stephen guessed the place probably seemed pretty big. With two people and a large tuba, the quarters were small and a bit cramped. However, Stephen did not care too much. They were poor, but they enjoyed their time together and made the best of the living situation. Soon, Stephen was going to try and make some money too; that would help.

            His Nan was still out, she always had church business on Fridays, so the two men grabbed the chairs from the dining room table and brought them into the living room. Nathan went to get water from the kitchen, he was at the apartment for hours each week and knew where everything was sometimes better than Stephen.

            The hyper boy bolted to the nearest bedroom, tripping over the sweater he had thrown to the ground that morning while trying to find his socks in the dresser, and grabbed the large black case that sat against the far wall. It was an interesting juxtaposition. The room was messy. The bed left unmade, pieces of dirty and clean clothing scattered across the floor, the small nightstand covered with a thin layer of dust, and a pillow sitting oddly in the window frame. However, against the far wall a small chunk of sanity in the asylum.

            His instrument case shined lightly, as though he wiped it down a few times a week, the music stand neatly set near the wall, every piece of music stacked and held together with a laundry clip, and a small second case carefully resting on the cardboard box filled with valve oil and fine screwdrivers. Stephen reached for that case and popped it open, within his mouthpiece glistened silver in the sunlight that spilled in through the curtainless window. He blew hot air through it for a few seconds, then put it on the still unmade twin bed. Hands gripped the top handle of the large black case and tilted it down, letting it rest on the carpeted floor gently. Then each latch was released one at a time and the lid lifted. The massive instrument’s delicate curves caught the light, making the ceiling sparkle, and with practiced hands, Stephen took it out of the velvet confinement.

            Stephen was not muscular. He was pudgy and self-conscious about gym class, but years of practicing had brought muscles to his upper arms and maneuvering the instrument was effortless. He rested it on the floor and reached for his mouthpiece once again. He slides metal into metal, careful not to push too hard or grip too tight, then lifted the completed horn and brought it back out to where his instructor was waiting.

 

 

2

            About an hour and a half later, Nan got back. She greeted them and promptly asked if Nathan wished to stay for dinner. The man refused, not unkindly, as he often does and the remainder of the lesson proceeded uninterrupted.

            Nathan left about a half hour after Nan got home, taking half a hot apple pie and a chunk of meatloaf with him. With the same care as before, Stephen put his instrument away before going to join his Nan in the kitchen. He began helping her set the table without being asked and was just about to start cutting vegetable for the salad when she spoke.

            “No. Stephen, you and knives remember.” She took the blade from his grasp as it reached the side of the onion. He made a sound of protest, she responded with a ‘tisk’ before continuing, “last time you managed to cut your hand, break two glasses, and carve a line into the counter. You are not cutting anything.”

            A flush rose across Stephen’s pale cheeks, burning all the way to his ears making them scarlet, “Nan~” he whined.

            She rolled her eyes in exasperation, “How was your day? I imagine you were given your report card.” She changed the subject with apparent practiced ease.

            “Yeah,” knife forgotten, Stephen darted back to his bedroom, riffled through his school things, and grabbed the crumpled piece of paper. “Here!” once he had returned to the kitchen he offered it to his grandmother with vigor. 

            She laughed, undaunted by her grandson’s exuberance, and took the paper. She walked unsteadily to her purse, which sat on the table a few feet away, to retrieve her reading glasses from within. “Well. You got A’s in arithmetic and history, unsurprisingly. Those were the subjects your parents taught, as you know. B- in composition and physical education.” She paused her amused rich blue eyes flickered to him, enjoying the look of satisfaction on his face. “And, by the grace of God, you pulled a B+ in conduct. ‘Fen, I am impressed.” When he moved towards her to grab the sheet back, she pulled him into a tight hug and kissed his head.

            He giggled in her clutches as he hugged her back in return.

            Dinner passed without much excitement, and before too long, Stephen was curled up in his bed listening to the repetitive drip that drifted through his bedroom walls from the kitchen.

 

 

3

            The following day, after Nan left to go play bingo with her church friends, Stephen reached what he referred to as ‘must move or die.’ It happened from time to time, nearly every day during vacation, Stephen would reach a point where the mere thought of sitting still and doing nothing would drive him crazy in seconds. Normally, this would result in him playing tuba until his fingers cramped and his mouth had no feeling, but new renters moved in below them last month and they made it clear that no tuba playing could happen from eight in the evening until 5 in the afternoon. Mr. Parks worked swing shift and they just brought home their three-week-old daughter, so Stephen did understand; even if he thought it was annoying.

            This was the reason Stephen was now attempting to fish in Kenduskeag. Sitting on the edge of the bridge that spread across Bassey Park, he swinging his bare feet to and fro holding a poor excuse for a fishing pole into the water. The handmade device was compiled from a single two-foot piece of wood, an old shoelace, and the hook that Stephen found in the lining closet. Needless to say, the fish were not biting. He could hear some kids shouting somewhere in the Barrens

            The park was empty. An occurrence that, as of late, had been common. Many children were being watched closely by their parents. Eight children had been killed or attacked, minus the youngest Corcoran boy and the Newbit kid, by some madman. Stephen assumed it made sense that kids were scared, and it made sense that parents wanted to protect them. However, he knew nothing could protect them. He would also bet, most kids in Derry knew by now that no curfew or parent could actually save them from what was out there.

            Stephen had a theory. He believed, by now, most kids in Derry have seen whatever it was. He would not be surprised if some kids had even seen the thing more than once. He had.

            The first time Stephen had assumed it was just his overactive imagination running wild. He had been terrified but was able to write it off easy enough. That encounter had happened back around Halloween, a couple of weeks after George Denbrough had been killed, and after his mind settled down Stephen had just thought it must have been a good costume and his own hyperactivity creating some monster rather than rationalizing the situation; he was wrong.

            The second time. The second time, Stephen knew it was real.    

 

 

4

            Valentine’s Day in elementary schools was basically just an excuse for kids to eat candy. It was true that Stephen thought Beverly March and Sally Mueller were pretty, but it was not like he wanted to kiss them the way the high school kids do in their cars or at the Aladdin Theater. And, he also thought that the Uris boy was cute but it is not like he was going to kiss him either. The chocolate, however, he could get behind. Stephen wasn’t given any by fellow classmates, but his teacher made sure that everyone got a piece of chocolate or a small bag of M&Ms. His Nan had also managed to sneak some smarties into his lunch without his knowledge that morning, so it was a good day.

            Plus, it was Friday. Fridays meant weekends and lessons with Nathan. The day ended without the hype the following June would have, but still with enough energy to make the teachers smile at momentary freedom. Stephen had to walk home this day, which was not too bad. Though it was a bit cold in Derry still, and Stephen forgot to grab his jacket on the way out the door that morning; unsurprisingly.

            The snow, which had come a second time in late January, was gone. Frost still shined on the ground each morning and the clouds still threatened to release torrents of rain each afternoon. Today was no different, the sky was shaded grey with patches of blue and the occasional bursts of sun whenever the wind felt it was allowed. Stephen decided to take the semi-scenic route home since he knew Nathan was driving farther than normal this afternoon.

            He turned down Costello Avenue towards the canal. A few houses still had Christmas light decorating their gutters and wreaths hanging on their doors, but most were standing silent against the backgrounds. Stephen saw a very people walking along Kansas Street when he crossed the road, mostly kids heading to the library. Eventually, he turned right on Canal Street and began the shortest park of his journey.

The park was dead, void of all people and yet Stephen thought he could feel someone’s eyes on him. Stopping, he turned around slowly, carefully scanning the park. Perhaps it was curiosity or just foolishness, but he gradually started back the way he had come bridging off the street and entering the outskirts of Bassey Park. Suddenly a thought ran through his mind as he again passed the library, the Fabayn’s had been out this way when someone attacked Lawrence. A new sense of fear spiraled through his body, by the time he reached the banks of the canal his body shivered harshly.

            _It’s cold. Just cold._

            Standing there on the bank, Stephen leaned forward and looked into the water. It was flowing unimpeded, bits of ice and garbage occasionally passing by but never catching on the rocks that ran across the bottom.

            A ringing started somewhere in the direction of the Barrens. It sounded like a phone. It would ring a few seconds, then die off, then start again. The sound grew in volume, painfully so, and Stephen held his hands to his ears as he went to investigate the noise more closely. By the time he had reached the end of Costello Avenue, walking behind the buildings on the canal side rather than returning to the street, he could see the bridge Minnie Fabayn had supposedly run from a few weeks ago. The ringing seemed to be coming from under the bridge.

            The logical part of Stephen, the part that could focus on the tuba or ace math exams, was screaming at him. _This is insane. There can’t be a phone under the bridge you idiot._ But the other part, the overexcited hyperactive part of him that he struggled to control at the best of times, was so intrigued that he slides down the slope to investigate the sound more closely.

            By the time he reached the bottom of the short ravine, about sixty feet away from the spot Ben Hanscom would land some four months later, the ringing sound had changed. It no longer sounded like a real phone, instead, it sounded fake. Like the ringing, a child’s toy phone might make. Stephen was becoming increasingly aware that he was approaching the spot Lawrence’s prone unresponsive body was retrieved from. He shuddered, imagining the brown hair boy lying unconscious on his stomach, blood seeping from the teeth like knife wounds that littered his chest and neck. He imagined the ground, rust brown and slow moving, absorbing the last ounces of blood that would have kept the other boy alive had he been found ninety seconds earlier; hell, thirty.

            Stephen wondered, in that moment, if Lawrence felt pain or if he was too far gone to know he was dying. His parents had known they were dying, a piece of information Stephen discovered on his sixth birthday thanks to some unhelpful distant relatives. It was a thought that always bothered the blonde. Was it better to be unaware that you were going to die, or to know death was coming and be prepared for it? A part of Stephen knew the Fabayn boy had known. His sister did not run unprompted. A different part hoped that Lawrence was gone before he fell; dead if you will before he had died. The thought of knowing, and being unable to do anything scared Stephen.

            He was fifteen feet away from the source of the sound, whatever was making noise still blocked from view by tall grass. Then, the sound stopped and so did Stephen.

            Swallowing the blonde called out, “Hello?” He felt stupid, calling out to some random sound. A sound that he was probably imagining. Why would a phone be under the bridge anyway?

            He had decided to leave when a voice answered. It was a child, far younger than Stephen, five maybe. She sounded so young, that the eleven-year-old was suddenly concerned for her safety. “Hi,” it was shrill; scared.

            The boy’s mind stuttered momentarily, “Uh, hi. My name is Stephen. What are you doing down here alone?” He had begun walking forward again, with less hesitation. Before the girl responded, she was visible. His guess had been accurate, she looked five or so. Her hair was long, red, and hanging over her shoulders covering her face. “Did you hear me?”

            “Roberta. My name is Roberta.” She shifted, the silver dress glittered like the water that ran behind Stephen.

            “Roberta? That’s a pretty name.” Even as he spoke, he could feel gooseflesh prickled across his skin. “Why are you down here?” he was only a few feet from her now.

            “My daddy comes down here.” She stood up, though her gaze remained downcast, “he says we live down here.”

            Stephen blinked, he felt like he should run. His mind flashing back to the little girl he thought he had seen on Halloween. The little girl with half her face gone, jaw that was torn in half and a silvery grey dress that danced in the breeze; defying the rain which bore down. “Live, down here?” he took a step back. He would run, in just a second, he would run all the way to his grandmother’s apartment. In just a second.

            She laughed and her voice pitched downwards, “Yes, Sir John Sousa. We have always lived down here.” She rolled her shoulders, pushing the hair behind them, and slowly she lifted her face.

            Stephen felt his eyes glaze over in disbelief. It was the girl from before. Her jaw hung awkwardly, barely attached, the white bone visible behind her moving tongue. She took a step towards him, and Stephen noticed her left eye was missing, a black dead hole where it should have been.

            He wanted to scream, to run, to do anything, but he was unable to get past the realization. It wasn’t until her thin bony hand curled around his arm that Stephen screamed and fell back. Now, looking up at her, Stephen noticed the orange dots running up the front of her dress and the odd gashes that decorated her neck; just like the ones, he envisioned on Lawrence.

            “Don’t you want a balloon, Steve my boy?” her voice changed again, no longer that of a child. “They float.” The thing was on top of him now.

            Another desperate scream escaped him, and by some grace, he separated himself from that thing yet again. Falling back into the water, he scrambled to his feet. With wet shoes, and ice running through his body, Stephen raced away.

            The laughter only fading from his mind, as he barged into the apartment and into Nathan’s arms.       

 

 

5

            A splash from somewhere in the distance brought Stephen back to the present, his eyes burned from lack of blinking and he reached up to rub some life back into them. He could feel his hairs standing on end as his hand brushed against his face. With a shuddered breath, Stephen looked back to the canal below and the lack of fish. In spite of his firm belief that all the kids in Derry are being haunted, or maybe hunted, by this thing he would never dare tell someone about his encounter.

            He had tried once, a couple days after the bridge. Stephen had started a casual conversation with Denbrough about rock-and-roll, and then a sudden thought shot through his brain. A sudden desperate desire to tell Bill what happened, to tell the other boy about the girl under the bridge. However, just as he was about to open his mouth and tell his tale a new voice spoke in his head.

            _You are not one of them._ The voice seemed to speak to him, and a chill ran through him.

So viciously that Bill even asked, “Are y-you okay?”

            Later that night, while Stephen was lying in bed listening to the endless drip of the kitchen faucet, he tried to place the voice and he could not, but he knew it was final.

            He was on his own, that is what the old knowledgeable voice had meant. He was not someone who could find safety in sharing; he could not find friendship or loyalty there; whether he lived or died depended on him. When that realization first surfaced in his mind that night in bed, he cried. It was a feeling of utter abandonment. There was a group, somewhere, that would find a way together, but he was not supposed to be with them.

            Even now that knowledge still caused his chest to contract and tighten painfully. Dropping his useless yet creative fishing pole into the canal and pulled his legs in. Spinning on the spot, he grabbed his shoes and pulled them to his feet. Once the worn tennis shoes, dinged with dried mud, were tied Stephen sprang to his feet and began the decent walk back to his grandma’s apartment.

            When he reached Kansas Street – he had decided to avoid Canal Street as much as possible over the last couple months – Stephen spotted an unusual sight. Biking up the street, towards him, were Denbrough, Kaspbrak, Tozier, Uris, and that Hanscom kid Stephen would see sometimes outside the library. They seemed happy, maybe, as though they just figured out some great secret. He watched as they passed and then continued on his way back home.

            The rest of the walk was uneventful, a few of Bowers gang wandering around the back roads and a postal worker delivering mail. He was a block away when the voice of Mrs. Patrick caught his ears.

            She was an older woman, the stereotypical cat lady – if their complex allowed animals, as it was she simply fed every cat in the neighborhood – who lived next door. Technically she lived on the first floor, but she would come by often enough to be considered a next door neighbor according to Nan.

            “Stephen.” She waved her hand beckoning him forward, her red fingernails stood out dramatically against her pale fingers and bright pink sweater. “Come quickly, son.”

            Another annoyance of his, being referred to as ‘son’ or ‘boy.’ “Coming Mrs. Patrick.” Stephen did not pick up speed, though he did head towards the older woman. Wondering briefly why she always had her hair in curlers. His Nan used curlers, but only at night and certainly not every day. Yet, Mrs. Patrick was always wearing them. Sometimes Stephen thought she might be the American version of Medusa, except seeing her did not turn you to stone it just made you want to run away and hide.

            When he reached her, Mrs. Patrick grabbed his shoulders and pulled him forward and threw his arms around him tightly. “Stephen, sweetie.” She bent forward, her hands still rested on his shoulders, to see into his eyes. “Stephen, your grandma, she had a stroke. An ambulance took her to Derry Home.”

            Stephen just gawked at her, “what?” his voice cracked partway through the word leaving it barely understandable.

            “Honey, she’ll be alright. I think it was just a minor stroke. My son, John, he is going to be here in just a few minutes to take you out to the hospital.” She ran a hand up and down his back, “I’d take you myself, but I have not driven since ’43.” She kept rambling on, but Stephen was no longer listening to her. She became a background noise, filling the gaps in his brain with random words and unheard phrases. He barely noticed when her son came and herded him into the car, the drive, or the short walk into the small hospital.

            “This is Mrs. Etchells’ grandson, Stephen. I.” The man paused and turned towards the blonde, “listen, kid, I, I can’t stay.” He seemed unsure about leaving, “You know my mom’s number. So call, alright?” the young man shuffled a bit, looked back to the nurse, and finally went on his way.

            The nurse smiled kindly and gently leaded Stephen to a chair in the reception area, “You just sit tight for a bit alright? Once the doctor gives the all clear, I’ll bring you right to your grandmother.” She patted his shoulder once and turned to get back to work.

 

 

6

            Eventually, the nurse did come back and bring Stephen to his grandmother’s room as she had promised. However, it was clear to the boy that a happy ending might not be a realistic outcome.

            Marjorie Etchells’ had suffered a rather serious stroke, and while Stephen did not understand all of what the doctor had told him, he did understand enough to know things might not go back to how they were. The hospital staff had said nothing about the eleven-year-old who had yet to leave even long after the sun had set. Going home to an empty apartment did not seem like the favorable option, and it was either that or stay next to his Nan’s bedside.

            The older woman looked peaceful, except for the slight beep of the machines and the purplish bruise that seemed glaringly obvious where she had struck her head during the stroke. The doctor had told Stephen the bruise only looked bad because of the blood thinner they were using, but it didn’t really compute.

            Stephen felt his legs bounces silently off the edge of the plastic chair in which he sat. He shifted, glancing at the clock – eleven thirty – and then towards the door. Silently hoping that someone might come in and give him something to do, other than sit and stare at the prone form of the only person who has loved him unconditionally.

            _That’s unfair. My parents loved me._

            He sighed in frustration, then stood up to pace. He could not go home now even if he wanted to – at least twice he had promised his Nan to listen to the curfew regardless of the situation, ‘I’d rather you be stuck at friend’s house on a school night then have you getting nabbed on the way back here after dark, you hear?’

            Looking back at her bed, Stephen opened the door leading to the hallway and leaned out. It seemed empty, the sound of heels clicking and machines beeping echoed but there was not a single person in sight. He slipped out, quickly closing the door behind him.

            The hospital was old, and small when he compared it to the one he’d been to in Bangor when he broke his arm a few years ago. Bangor had been giant, he always thought leaving his room would result in him being forever lost in the lower corridors walking unintentionally entering some room belonging to a dying man, or worse the morgue. However, Stephen had no fears of getting lost in the bowels of Derry Home. He doubted many of the rooms even held people, instead stripped beds and empty drawers.

            He ducked down the next hallway and into the stairwell, after a second’s contemplation he started going up; making a mental note that his grandmother was on the second-floor room 217. He decided to go all the way up, in hopes that maybe the door leading to the roof was unlocked and he could maybe gaze at the stars or look out over Derry.

            The door was unsurprisingly locked, but the door to the fifth floor just below was open and Stephen figured it was better than nothing. The fifth floor seemed even less occupied than the floor his grandmother was on. Some rooms were equipped with various medical tools and machines, others were virtually empty minus a bed frame. Still, further down the hall, rooms were under construction; marked off with signs and tape. At the far end, stood an open elevator shaft; waiting to be filled with a new better elevator to replace the old one which only reached the third floor.

            Curiosity was an ever-present beast, thriving deep within Stephen’s mind. So with recognized stupidity, he approached the black hole that reached all the way back to the ground floor. He carefully avoided the construction gear, cans of paint, and ladder which sat near the door’s opening. The edges of the elevator shaft seemed sharp and Stephen was concerned grabbing it might cut his hands, so instead, he knelt down and leaned out over the blackness. There was no light, and the darkness seemed eternal as it stretched down. The boy looked behind him for something he could toss into the void, he reached out and grabbed the nearest paintbrush, before turning back and carelessly tossing it down. He quickly leaned back over to hear the brush land at the bottom. 

            The brush hit the sides of the metal scaffold four times before hitting the base with a ‘kthunk.’ The elation of the action pushed some of the anxiety and fear surrounding the day’s events out of his brain for a moment. So the second the ‘kthunk’ reached his ears, Stephen was looking for something else to toss down into the dark.

            To his left, Stephen noticed a few more rooms that he had not yet looked inside, and so he shuffled down that direction looking for another object – preferably one that would break when it landed. These rooms were dark and unused, but unlike the previous ones, they clearly had been used regularly. They were decorated just like his Nan’s room downstairs, minus her things which littered the table top.

            As Stephen entered the final room on the right, he assumed it would be as empty as every other part of the fifth floor had been and therefore had given up his attempts at being stealthy. He made it all the way to the center of the room when he noticed that the bathroom door was closed, light shining from underneath, and water was running. He was caught off guard, for the first time since entering uncertain. Slowly he stepped backward, careful not to bump anything or make any noise, inching towards the still open door.

            With each step he notice things his brain hastily ignored as he was entering; the bed was not made, but clearly it had been used – the sheets were turned down and slightly damp looking; the blinds were open, and on the windowsill an ashtray held a cigarette that was still glowing faintly; an oxygen machine hissed next to the bed, and three pairs of shoes lined up next to the dresser. Two of the sets were benign, however, the other pair sent a shiver through Stephen.

            The shoes were small, a kid's pair probably a boys, and muddy. Small brown splotches spotted the floor surrounding the shoes. They were old and well worn, but what stood out most was the laces. The ends painted red, as though someone had stepped into something, still shined as though wet in the light streaming from the window. Stephen took a step forward when the door to the bathroom clicked, and with the spike, in anxiety, Stephen sprinted out of the room. He made it back to the stairwell and down a flight before his brain catches up with his body and he slowed down. Though his heart rate still raced, his breathing had settled by the time he returned to room 217.

            Feeling his body stutter slightly, Stephen took up his vigil next to his grandmother once more. Eventually, falling asleep draped over her bed.

 

 

7

            Stephen was shooed out of the hospital about twenty-four hours later, told to ‘go home and get some real sleep.’ Of course, that meant Stephen returning to an empty apartment. He could call Nathan, though he was not sure what exactly the music teacher would be able to do, seeing as he was on vacation this week with his wife in Florida and would not be back until the third of July; a patriotic music lesson was already planned.

            The boy wandered the streets of Derry, walking down Main Street in the clothes he wore the day before. It was another bright June day, more kids were out playing this morning than had been in the last. Stephen passed the complex that housed the Marsh’s place and crossed the bridge towards Nan’s apartment. He continued passed it this time, planning on doubling back sometime before dusk.

            He walked by the Baptist church on Jackson and then decided to see what was playing at the Aladdin. Stephen did not have any cash but figured sneaking in once would not be that bad of a thing to do. By the time he got to the library, his legs burned it had been hours since he left the hospital, and he decided to take a break on the steps facing the building.

            He was close to falling asleep when shouts jarred him awake, seconds later a couple of the boys he had seen the other day raced passed him along with a girl he knew to be Beverly Marsh. They screeched and laughed and as the sound faded into the distance, Stephen was reminded of the isolation that was suffered most of the children in Derry. Blinking heavily, Stephen yawned and started back to the apartment – having given up on the theater before even seeing what was playing; stealing was bad anyway.

            He was careful to go unseen by Mrs. Patrick, or her son should he be around, as he approached the complex. She really was a nice lady, but there was only so much he could take and with everything going on spending hours listening to her recount meeting her husband or his death was really unappealing. Especially since Stephen knew both of those stories; they met at the hospital when she was working as a candy striper and he came in with his brother after they had a fight; he died fighting in the war.

            Thankfully, he managed to climb the few flights of stairs without getting noticed. The sky was red with the setting sun as he turned the key and entered the vacant apartment. The air was a bit stale, which happened whenever no one was there to open the window each afternoon. The light on the phone in the kitchen was flashing, but besides that everything else was dark. Stephen flicked the overhead light on and suddenly his body felt tired.

            He was exhausted. His limbs felt heavy and his mind was clouded. As much as he wanted to return to his grandmother’s room that night, the thought of walking back to the hospital was enough to sway him to wait until morning. Without a second thought, he walked the short distance to his bedroom and brought his tuba into the living room. It was too late to practice, but he could shine the horn and oil the valves.

            His distraction only lasted thirty minutes, discomfort had settled now deep in his chest and even maintaining his tuba could not unwedge it. In frustration, Stephen closed the case harder than he normally did and instantly regretted it. Immediately pulling it open again to check for damage. When none was found, he closed it again gently. He latched it shut with a shaky breathe and dragged the beast back to his room.

            The first tear fell as he stepped back into the main room of the apartment. He stood there, just out of the doorway, as silent tears slowly trickled down his cheeks. Cars honked outside, the sound of the crying baby from the apartment below filtered up through the floor, and Stephen sunk to his knees and cried.

            He had fallen asleep, uncomfortably curled in on himself. It took him a few seconds to wake up enough to understand where he was; the same thing had happened the previous night at the hospital. Eventually, he painfully stretched out and shakily stood up. After a deep yawn, he turned back to his bedroom.

            It was still black outside, void of any light, and according to the clock, it was only three in the morning. Stephen blinked blurrily, his actions filled with exhaustion, and collapsed on his bed. In the silence, he could hear the repetitive drip from the kitchen since.

            _Plink,_ pause, _plink,_ pause, _plink._

The sound started to draw Stephen back into the comfort of sleep.

            _Plink,_ pause, _plink,_ pause _, glop_

Stephen felt his body jolt with the new sound. With his eyes wide open, he held his breath and listened. He strained his ears, waiting to hear the sound again, but the noise did not return. After three or four minutes, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes a second time.

            _Plink,_ pause, _plink,_ pause _, glop, glop_

            He stilled again. Internally, he was fighting with himself. _Nothing is there. You are just imagining it. You just think you hear something because you are home alone._ The rational side of him argued.

            But the irrational side, the side that wanted to live above all else, kept saying, _leave. Get up right now and leave. Escape. Run. Hide._

            The sound returned to normal again, but Stephen was not fooled. Slowly, he gripped the blanket and pulled it above his head. He knew that this form of defense was childish, but he was a child. He could not run away. Run where? The hospital? Down to the Patrick’s place?

            _Plink,_ pause, _plink_

Minutes passed again and nothing changed. The sound of dripping water continued as normal. The floor did not creak. The door did not open. Stephen’s heart slowed down too, “You’re just fucking tired you, idiot. Go to sleep.” He mumbled aloud.

            He shifted, turning to his left side and stretching his legs out. His ankle brushed up against something solid and warm causing him to draw his legs back to his chest. His mind raced trying to justify what he felt. Slowly he stretched out that leg again, feeling for the object while his head was still buried far under the covers. Nothing was there, however, and again Stephen wondered if this was just an anxiety driven hallucination.

            He sighed in self-aimed frustration and rolled onto his right side while pulling his head out from under the covers. Stephen then brought his arm under the pillow and pulled it farther under his head.

            While he shifted, he felt something lands on his leg, something heavy. His eyes snapped open.

            “Hello, again Stevie.” On his leg was a piece of jaw. The girl he had seen under the bridge stood beside his bed smiling. “I see you found what I had lost.” Her words came out wet and thick.

            Stephen felt himself slam into the wall behind him. Backing up as far as he could.

            “Come now. Why don’t you want to play with me, Stevie? There are so many to play with. And there will be many more. But you already know that don’t you.” The orange spots on her silver dress grew outward and her red hair started to stand on end.

            The paralyzed boy tried to scream, to cry, to say something, but he could not even get a sound out. His throat was closing in on itself, the only thing he could do was close his eyes causing hot terrified tears to spill down.

            “You’ll have fun down here.”

            It laughed. 


End file.
